AUTHOR'S NOTE: Why yes I'm granting you guys another chapter so soon after the last and not being criminally evil like I have been the past 6 months and making you wait. Again really sorry about that guys. But know this: I am determined to see this story through to the end. No matter how long it takes. Hopefully not as long as Supernatural (but damn that's a good show).

Anyway, if the above rant hasn't clued y'all in that I'm about to drop from caffeine and work overload then I don't know what will. So let's cut straight to the chapter.

..Aaaaaaand SCENE!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or its characters. They are the property of George R R Martin and HBO. I own Nadia alone.


ROBB

His eyes burned into the back of her skull, the entire time she stood there communicating silently with his mother. And even after some. He regrets to admit that a part of him wanted to call the banshee back as Theon pulled her away. The two of them have not spoken a word to each other since she'd futilely demanded he not wager with Walder Frey. Now, once again, Nadia's barging into his tent making demands of him? A crueler man would have had her lashed for her blunt ignorance and disrespect for order - as Roose Bolton had so kindly pointed out. Robb is not a crueller man, yet he is not any less perturbed by her performance. Speaking to him like that, in front of his men no less.

Has she so little regard for him? To speak to him like a mother berating her child. Speaking of mothers… the young Stark turns his attention to his own.

Her face betrays nothing, even after that little show between her and his ward. If the situation were not so serious, Robb would smirk at how Northern his mother seems this very moment.

Leaning forward, his fingers tap against the tabletop. "Well? What did he say?"

"Lord Walder has granted your crossing. His men are yours, as well."

Robb's brow furrows at this. "Huh."

"Less the 400 he will keep here to hold the crossing against any who would pursue you," she finishes with pursed lips and pinched brows. He knows that look. Catelyn Stark may profess to having an innate insight into her children's minds, but Robb can profess to know his mother well enough too. And he knows, well enough, that she keeps something from him.

"What does he want in return?"

"You will be taking on his son Olyvar as your personal squire. He expects a knighthood in good time."

"Fine, fine. And?"

"And Arya will marry his son Waldron when they both come of age."

He suppresses a groan. This is not something he'd dreamed of negotiating in a thousand years. Still he bites his tongue from saying anything he may regret. "She won't be happy about that. And?"

She hesitates. Perhaps she doesn't mean for him to see, but he does. Robb feels his stomach churn. "Mother," Robb pushes. Though he doesn't need to. He doesn't need to hear her words to know what she is about to say. Walder Frey has a reputation.

"When the fighting is done you will marry one of his daughters. Whichever you prefer. He has a number he thinks will be suitable."

"I see," he swallows thickly, practically tasting the bile on his tongue. "Did you get a look at his daughters?" If Theon were here, the bastard wouldn't hesitate to find humour in Robb's misfortune. He thanks the gods, that Theon is not here. That no one is here to see this humiliation. This jest.

"l did."

"And?"

"One was –" she cuts herself off, unable to find the appropriate words.

'Or perhaps unable to find a kind word.'

It's final it seems, when she meets his eyes. Robb resigns himself to his fate. What would any of it matter if he dies in battle before that? And should he free his father and his sisters, it would be a price worth paying. 'Perhaps I will find love with my Frey wife, just as mother and father did,' but even the voice in his head quivers with doubt, knowing just how rare it is to find true love in a loveless betrothal.

Chin resting upon closed fists, his stare penetrates the flagon of mead before him; the young Stark begins to see the sense in King Robert's addiction to the toxic substance.

From the corner of his eye, the figure of his mother moves towards him, taking the seat next to him. Her fingers, trembling and weak from an assassin's dagger, still find the strength to force his head to turn; the trails into the dark auburn locks surrounding his face, much like they had done when he was a boy, much like he has seen a certain raven-haired maiden do a thousand times with his youngest brothers.

Tully blue orbs seek his own and the sadness behind them is too much for him. One hand cups his face, the other seeks his own, squeezing them gently. A bittersweet smile paints itself across her face when she speaks, just above a whisper, "Your father and I wanted all of you to marry for love. Sansa I could not help... that fat King ordered it and she would have begged till my ears bled-" they share a sad smile at the memory of his stubborn sister, full of fantasies of gallant knights and princes, "You do not have to do this Robb," she insists.

He pulls away from her hands, rising from his seat. Turning his back on her, the young man's gaze locks on his sigil reflecting in the banners decorating the room. His father's sigil. With clenched fists, Robb resigns, "It is already done."

His eyes are closed but he hears her make her way behind him. "What if there is another option?


Robb's not sure how he feels let alone what he ought to say to Nadia, only that he has to say something to her. Men send curious looks his way, as he approaches her tent, making it increasingly evident to him that his ignorance of his ward hasn't gone unnoticed. A small part of him realises now it may have been reckless to treat her the way he did.

Especially if other men have taken notice of her.

Nadia had done nothing wrong per se. She had done nothing at all, really. An argument could be made that she has done some good with her time in this world, but the jury's out on that.

It suddenly occurs to Robb how she had plead with him to let her serve him in aiding his men medically. She doesn't have to, she owes him nothing, having repaid her life debts by saving Bran and his mother. 'That's the issue though. She owes me nothing but still risks her life in following me.'

Sometimes he wonders if she's even calculated the risk of her dying in the field. Robb doubts it, or else she wouldn't have come.

His feet come to a standstill before her tent. He takes a few moments to deliberate, deciding finally to abandon his mission altogether, knowing it to be truly absurd. However her the sound of something shattering and her familiar cussing voice catches him, echoing through her tent flaps, "Ow! Son of a-"

"Nadia?" The way she jumps up at his voice is so comical, Robb has to work to keep the amused look off his face. Her own betrays an array of emotions from shock, to suspicion to sadness, very quickly bringing his own down.

His eyes run over her, not missing the way her foot hustled something out of his view with a quick kick or how she is not so discreetly hiding her hands behind her back.

"Lord Stark," she nods stiffly.

Nodding at her concealed hands, he asks what she hides.

"Nothing..."

He moves towards her and raises his hand in silent request. In turn she raises an eyebrow. "You want me to read your palms? Too bad, I'm not really into the whole astrology, foreshadowing crap."

"Give me your hand." She proffers her left first and it's perfectly fine. Then with reluctance, she shows him her right. Before her fist can even open, blood drips from beneath her clenched knuckles to his own palm.

"It's just a scratch."

"A scratch?" he's incredulous. What was she scratched by? A lion?

"Okay so maybe scratch isn't the right word. How about... teensy little cut?"

"Close enough," Robb snorts. "How did this happen?"

Nadia is quiet a few seconds, swaying a little awkwardly before stepping aside and revealing pieces of shattered mirror glass tucked under the table. "I knocked it over, "she says looking him straight in the eye.

"How?"

"What do you mean how? My hand hit the mirror, mirror fell off table, I tried picking the pieces up, and sliced my hand accidentally."

"Then why try to hide it?"

Nadia shrugs, "Didn't want to look clumsy."

Robb Stark doesn't know much about her but knows one thing for sure: Arya has more grace than Nadia. In the months he's known her, she has managed to collide with just about anything, beds, tables, chairs, shelves, doors, walls, fences, people. Even then it made her bashful a little, sure - and perhaps a little too expressive verbally - but never embarrassed enough to hide away like any other girl probably would have sans Arya. Nadia is surprisingly sturdy, resilient, easily plays of her mortification - especially when Theon teases her lack of sexuality, a feat in itself. Which is why Robb doesn't believe her.

"You're lying to me." She's about to rebut, but he cuts her off. "Did you have a vision and drop it?"

"No."

"...Did you throw the mirror?"

She doesn't answer him, only purses her lips, which tells Robb enough. He sighs, tugging his shirt a little tearing the hem off. Ignoring Nadia's protests, Robb manages to manhandle her into sitting on a chair, while he rinses and bandages her palm. The silence that hangs between them is suffocatingly thick with tension; before him Nadia tries to mute her fidgeting, the little erratic bounce in her knee, the circles she draws over and over with her left index finger.

He assumes it becomes too much for her, because she soon asks, "How did you know I was lying?"

He glances at her curious dark gaze. "You didn't look away from me." She furrows her brows in confusion, so he explains, "You're shyer than you make out. You never hold gazes long because it makes you feel uncomfortable, even with people you're familiar with. But when you lie, you hold eye contact, as if you're daring a person to call your bluff."

"Isn't looking people in the eye a sign of truth?"

"Perhaps... but you're funny way that way. Besides, it's more like you're looking through them than at them. You don't want people to see what's in your eyes."

Robb can't help the small surge of pride he gets seeing the odd little smile she tries to conceal at his words, her blush and dimples betraying her.

"How'd you figure that?"

"You did that when Theon and I tried to make you pancakes."

"I didn't hate your pancakes!"

"You certainly didn't like them."

"...okay so they were crap. With a capital C."

They both bite back smiles, but it's too much, and Robb finds himself chuckling lightly along with her. He fondly recalls that day that seemed so long ago. He and Theon had given into the girl's badgering to teach her to use a bow and arrow; after two hours of little progress, Theon bet her if she could hit the target, they'd cook for her. It was a bet she regretted winning, based on the look on her face as she struggled to stomach the pancakes they plated for her.

Looking at her now, Robb felt his heart twinge. A sad quiet fills the space between them as they smiles drop away. She turns away from him, her dark gaze seeking out something else to purchase. His own gaze lingers before returning to her hand. Knotting the ripped cloth, he gives her hand an awkward pat. "I'm sure you know how to take care of it."

She nods. "Thank you, Lord Stark," she mutters when he's done. The man can't help but grimace at the title. It's the way she says it, as if there's a blade on her tongue; she forces herself to say it, bitterness and quiet resentment poorly masked in her polite tone.

Before he realises it, he tells her to stop... "You've never called me that. Not when it's just us."

"Thought you only reserved that privilege for friends and family." She says it sort of teasingly, lightheartedly yet he can still hear the scathing intent in the bashful smile that doesn't reach her eyes. He schools himself from hitting back with his own biting remark. Yet somehow she knows she hit a nerve. Her bitter smile slackens, growing softer, kinder. "I'm sorry," she sighs.

"Nadi-"

She shakes her head, "You're planning a war to save your family. It's stressful. I get that."

Robb pushes back, rising to his feet. "I'm not stressed. I just-"

"Don't trust me," she cuts him off, the matter-of-fact intonation clear in her voice. Her uninjured hand reaches for his, hesitating only for a second, before her fingertips brush against his. When he doesn't pull away, she slowly, slides them further, entwining her hand with his own. "Hey, I don't blame you. I'm not going to pretend to be some guardian angel who can miraculously fix all your problems. And I told you I most definitely will not play God. I can't have that on my conscience."

"And what about the people, innocent people you could save?" he demands, albeit more gently than he had ever done before.

"When I tried that, you didn't wanna listen," she replies, soft though it cuts him like a razor blade. He can feel her gaze boring into the side of his face but he shamefacedly refuses to meet it with his own. Instead he turns his attention to Nadia's small cot. The furs and blankets are strewn with chaotic organisation, books and scrolls lying open as if she'd just been studying them. His sharp blue eyes take note of the small leather-bound book tucked discretely beneath the edge of her cot, its brown tip just protruding. At the back of his mind he wonders why she hides it.

What's more troubling is the guilt he feels. He should have listened to her. Maybe then his mother would never have had to bargain with Walder Frey. Maybe then he wouldn't be in this position.

"You should never have come." Her face falls at his words. "You should have stayed in Winterfell, with Bran and Rickon. You're better off there. You' would have been safer there."

A brief look of confusion crosses her copper-skinned features. "Careful, I might actually start to think you care," she teases half-heartedly. But when he makes no motion to answer, her mirth falls again. "You're actually worried about me?" Robb dislikes the incredulity he hears. "I can literally see death coming. It's your life I'm more concerned about."

He recalls Theon's words from when they'd first set out from Winterfell: 'She's here for you.'

"I suppose then, I owe you my thanks," he says.

"Thanks?"

"I don't know what you said to my mother... but I appreciate it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Walder Frey," he answers. A look of understanding followed by confusion crosses her face.

"Why would you be thanking me? It's a bridge for a bride... isn't it?" If ever asked, Robb would deny that a small part of him wanted to hear the hope in her voice.

He stares at her a few seconds before allowing a charming smirk to creep across his face. "Not if I already have a bride."


A/N Pls review! Constructive criticism is welcome. Flames will be met with Fury!

Have a good one, everybody