I'm sticking closer to the show timeline, rather than the books. So the Rebellion was between 280 and 281.

aetheling: Old English term refering to the princes eligible for the kingship.

Part 1

she wore ice on her skin as diamonds while the heat in her veins kept her from freezing

298 AC

"My father sent me a raven. Jon Arryn is dead," his wife's words may be blunt and to the point, but her voice is soft as she tells him the news while she snuggles deeper into his upper body, their son sleeping contently on her bare chest after feeding, sucking his thumb. On another time, the simple thought of such a scene would have made him blush red. But after years of living with his free spirited dornish wife, this had become commonplace.

"I shall have to tell my father on the morrow," that is all he says before plants a kiss to his wife's hair and carefully takes their son from her chest and moves to lay him down at his crib in their rooms. But truly, he does not know what this means for Westeros.

Robb is no longer a boy who would easily believe his father to be a great hero and for kings to be all-knowing. His southern, politically trained wife had made sure of that. As such, he knew of Robert Baratheon's habits and temperament. He knew of his hatred for the Targaeryens and his distrust for the Martells and because of that, he worried about his wife and by extension, their children. The simple thought of Alia, Leila and Artos being in danger made him snarl and to regain himself, he allowed his son to wrap his hand around his finger, the motion soothing him.

He turned back to look at his wife, who seemed to be reading some letters, no doubt from her family and allowed a small smile to grace as his face as he once again looked down at his sleeping son.

Their marriage had certainly come a long way since they first met. His reaction to the loss of a son had helped in that, he knew. While Vitoria had been hesitant to trust him at first and he had been resentful that he had to leave the Karstarks to marry, he had been besotted with his dornish wife from the moment he laid eyes on her. Yet it had not been until Vitoria had miscarried their son that she opened up her heart to him. It had broken his heart to see her so broken and weak in the bed after undergoing such an experience. To know that she was scared of him had been an even bigger blow.

As their marriage improved, so did her standing in the North. At first, the lords and servants alike had been cold towards her, reluctant to trust her. But after she birthed the twins, they had started to warm up to her, seeing that she was now staying for good, two children made sure of that. And, the selflessness she displayed helped the Northern lords trust her more and more. The birth of Artos had been what secured her status as the wife to the future Warden of the North, Robb was aware of that, but he would have remained with her as his wife even if Artos had been born another daughter or if Vitoria had been declared barren after miscarrying.

He turned his head to look back at his wife, seeing that she was now dressed in her nightclothes and wrapped in the furs, sleeping soundly.

"Why are you getting pretty for the king?" her voice cuts through the room and makes her goodsister smear kohl across her cheek.

Honestly, she can't bring herself to feel guilty about it. She'd gone to her rooms to try and convince her to sneak in some archery practice in the morning, but instead she'd had to sit watching her get ready to meet the royal party. And she can't quite understand why Vitoria is putting on all the effort into her appearance. She's wearing a dress completely unlike the ones she's worn the past few years; it looks similar to the ones she wore when she was still adjusting to life in the Winterlands. It's neckline is cut low, exposing the curve of her breasts and her sternum and the dress clings to her chest like a second skin, only separating itself from her body when it reaches her waist. Her hair, at least, still looks like a northern woman's, being styled in a simple braid over her shoulder.

She sees Vitoria taking a few breaths, with her eyes closed and immediately regrets having spoken out of the blue. She knows how much time Vitoria spends in her appearance, even if she doesn't understand why. And she has to swallow loudly when her brother's wife turns her head to look at her, her narrowed eyes sharp enough to make her worry.

"I'm not 'getting pretty' for the king, sweetling."

She turns back around and starts wiping away the kohl with a cloth, before reapplying it. "I'm making sure I don't look tired, for starters. And, this is no less than I would do everyday if I were back in Sunspear. There is no need for this with how our life usually is, but the court in King's Landing expects more from us. That is why your brothers and Theon are getting their faces shaved and why I am rimming my eyes with kohl and my cheeks with red."

"I still don't get it," she huffs, sliding down onto the floor and stroking Nymeris's fur.

"All the world's a stage and we are merely players," Vitoria whispers, low enough that she barely hears it as she paints her lips with rouge.

And that makes her think. That makes her remember how Vitoria's role in Winterfell has evolved since she first arrived.

She's a knife wrapped in silk, that wife of your, boy, the Greatjon's words run through her mind and she thinks that she finally understands what he meant when he talked to Robb.

Vitoria is beautiful, anyone with eyes knows that. She may not be the beauty Cersei Lannister reportedly was in her youth, but she's beautiful nonetheless. Arya secretly thinks that no matter what everyone said about Sansa growing into her looks, Vitoria will always be more beautiful. But not only that, Vitoria is downright deadly as well. She had seen her reduce serving girls to tears with a few words.

But now, watching her goodsister get ready for the day, Arya places it all together.

The danger of Vitoria Martell lies hidden in her beauty.

Ned cast a quick glance over the courtyard as the gates were pulled open to allow entrance to the court.

Catelyn was at his side, no doubt smiling at the thought of hosting the court and to be able to be a southern lady as she so often wished she were. That was a constant source of discussion between them. In his eyes, Catelyn seemed to spend more time wishing she were a lady at court than actually acting as the Lady of Winterfell she was. And she did a poor job at it, refusing to deal with the servants and only dealing with the steward and refusing to convert to their religion. He had refused to build her a sept and forced her into a marriage in the godswood after the Greyjoy Rebellion, having been forced to acknowledge his Ealdormen's unrest with his marriage. Their already frail relationship had failed to completely recover.

On his other side was Robb, his eldest son, with his hand on his daughter's shoulder in front of him. Ned felt a surge of pride as he took in Robb's straight back and his proud visage. His son would be a better Lord of Winterfell than Ned would ever manage to be. Unlike him, he had been raised to be so. He could only be an aetheling so far, but he doubted any of his Ealdormen would dare support one his brothers or his own son against him. If he had to go south, he would make sure to invest him and Vitoria with the honors necessary to secure their lordship while he was away. His father had not done what was needed to secure his possible rule and he had found himself wholly unprepared for the task. He would avoid the same happening to his son.

Vitoria had found her place at the next to his eldest, Artos resting on her hip and sucking on his thumb, his disinterest on the day's proceedings clear. He could see her blank expression, in the way he remembered it had been when she'd just arrived at Winterfell, before she and his son had fallen for one another. She had truly outdone herself in helping Catelyn to ready the castle for their guests, though he suspected it was more to spite the queen by giving her no cause for complaint than out of a desire for the royal family to be comfortable. Nevertheless, she looked serene as they awaited the royal party's arrival.

Sansa was on Vitoria's far side, dressed in a blue dress that was certainly a gift from Vitoria if the lacing at the back was anything to go by. He was thankful that at least it seemed to blend the Northern and the dornish styles, leaning more to towards the northern ones. She was nearly bouncing from excitement at the coming court. She loved her songs and stories, in spite of Vitoria's attempts to 'stop the Starks from being summer children'.

Arya had finally reached her place on Sansa's other side, dressed similarly to her goodsister with a dress and a grey shawl around her shoulders, and seeming as if she had just left the training yard if her disheveled hair was anything to go by. Ned wondered what Vitoria had threatened his youngest daughter with to make her comply and wear a dress. Arya would much prefer to spend her entire life sparring than ever act as a lady. It simply wasn't in her nature. But she had begun trying at Vitoria's insistence. Arya looked up to her goodsister and Ned was glad that Vitoria was making the best out of it, pressuring his youngest daughter into wearing dresses every now and then and into attending her lessons with Septa Mordane, despite her own dislike of the woman.

Bran was standing next to Arya, looking interested in something other than his books for once. Ned could barely see a dagger hidden on his trousers and he thought he saw Arya try to reach for it before Bran whispered something back, that made her withdraw her hand. He also thought he saw the hilt of a dagger hidden in Sansa's belt, to his great surprise — no doubt his goddaughter had something to do with it, she had proposed to herself that her goodfamily would be able to defend itself even if their guards failed.

Ned had not really helped in Vitoria's quest to educate his daughters on reality, he could admit. He thought it better to shield them from things a young lady ought not to know of. Catelyn agreed with him on that, but he thought that it was mainly her southern upbringing and her desire to see his daughters as ladies fit for the court. But, he still worried that giving in to Vitoria's pleas to allow them to learn to use a weapon other than a dagger had been a mistake, though it was reassuring to know that none of his daughters would be as easily stolen as his sister had been.

Rickon, Alia and Leila were both doing to their best to appear mature, but their fidgeting gave away their restlessness. At Vitoria's insistence, their direwolves were next to their masters, most of them still unnamed. His granddaughters made quite the sight, with Grey Wind and Dawn at their sides and Shadow laying down protectively in front of them.

Ned grinned, more amused than anything else. He was fiercely proud of all of his children and grandchildren. It pained him that he'd had to have Jon put in the second line, and Vitoria had made several cutting remarks about the south's attitude towards illegitimate children. But on the bright side, Jon was tucked out of sight of any Lannisters.

The last thing his family needed was somebody laying eyes on Jon and starting to make any connections between his birth and his sister's death. That was his largest concern about Robert's visit. Thank the Gods, Jon was a Stark through-and-through.

Gods willing, nobody ever would pick up on his heritage. Ned fully intended to take the secret of Jon's birth to his grave, no matter how much hurt it caused him not to know of her mother, or the pain that would flash through Catelyn's eyes when he refused to speak of Jon's mother. He could not tell her the truth about Jon, not when their marriage was so fragile and he often saw her as power hungry, like most southrons were.

He forced his thoughts away as the procession began to pour through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel. He judged it to be about three hundred strong, made up of Robert's bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and freeriders and more. Over their heads a dozen golden banners whipped back and forth in the faint and refreshing breeze, emblazoned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.

The sight of Jaime Lannister and Barristan Selmy made Vitoria's expression tighten, though she retained her neutrality with admirable willpower. He knew perfectly well what she thought of the pair. Selmy had sworn his sword to Robert just after the Trident after Rhaegar had fallen, but his wife and children, her aunt and cousins, had all still lived. In Vitoria's eyes, the man should have died instead of betraying his lieges by bending the knee. Her loathing for Jaime, the only Kingsguard in the capital who had been nowhere to be seen whilst his father's men killed her aunt Elia and her children, was almost frightening in its intensity at times.

But Ned could not give any comfort to his gooddaughter. He was too stunned by the sight of the huge man at the head of the column, flanked by two unfamiliar knights in the snow-white cloaks of the Kingsguard. He seemed almost a stranger to Ned . . . until he vaulted off the back of his warhorse with a familiar roar, and crushed him in a bone-crunching hug that knocked the breath out of him. "Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that face of yours." Robert looked him over top to bottom, and laughed. "You've gotten fat. I can barely recognize you, you look so different."

Robert was one to talk. Eighteen years past, when they had set out from the Vale to win a war together, the Demon of the Trident had been clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a maiden's fantasy. Six and a half feet tall, he towered over most men, and when he donned his armour and the great antlered helmet of his House, he became a veritable giant. He'd had a giant's strength too, his weapon of choice a spiked iron warhammer that Ned could barely lift on his best days, not at all on the rest of them. In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like incense.

Now it was the scent of perfume that clung to him, and he had a girth to match his height. Ned had last seen the king nine years before during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion, when they had last fought side-by-side, that time to end the pretensions of the self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands. Robert had looked similar enough to their youth at the time, if a bit tired and worn by the weight of his crown and the memories of the war and what had caused it.

But things had changed a great deal in the past few years it seemed. Since the night they had stood side by side in Greyjoy's fallen stronghold at Pyke, where Robert had accepted the rebels' surrender and Ned had taken the last surviving Greyjoy male as both hostage and ward, the king had gained at least eight stone.

Ned himself had gained a few subtle wrinkles and strands of grey hair as well as some pounds, but otherwise he looked similar to when he'd been a young warrior and the new Lord of Winterfell. He definitely hadn't gotten fat either, even if his waistline had expanded.

He smirked at his old friend, hiding how troubled he felt by Robert's appearance.

"Me?" he said in a jesting tone, ignoring people's blatant disapproval at his light-hearted attitude towards his king. Robert was Robert, even with a crown on his head and some extra pounds on his belly. Ned could not bring himself to treat him otherwise, as if they had not been raised side-by-side as brothers. "I have grown fat? Look at the kettle calling the pot black, Your Grace." He spoke the title in a mocking tone as he pointedly looked at Robert's girth and his old friend let out a roar of laughter, dragging Ned into a tight embrace.

By then the others were dismounting as well, and servants were coming forward for their mounts. Queen Cersei entered on foot with her younger two children, who were her spiting image just like the Crown Prince. Ned couldn't see a speck of Robert in them, but he supposed he had yet to be properly introduced to the children. Perhaps when he was closer he would see more of a resemblance, and of course he had yet to interact with them at all, so he could say nothing of their characters.

The wheelhouse in which they had ridden, a huge double-decked carriage of oiled oak and gilded metal pulled by forty heavy draft horses, was too big for the yard, especially when it was full of people. Vitoria eyed it with a blank expression that Ned recognized as contempt. She had explained to them that her father despised such displays of wealth, deeming them unnecessary and that she agreed with him. After all, why waste the gold on a carriage you'd use once when you could use it to feed the small folk? Even Catelyn and Sansa had shut their mouths after she used that reasoning.

Ned knelt to kiss the queen's ring in greeting, before rising, taking a deep breath and praying this went well. Then, he turned his body to the side, to introduce his family to the royals, starting with his loyalist goddaughter.

"My gooddaughter, Princess Vitoria Stark of House Martell," he introduced.

She curtsied lowly, expression devoid of emotion and eyes downcast and meek. There was no obvious sign of the hatred she felt towards the couple, something that relieved Ned. The last thing he wanted was for his friend to become suspicious of Vitoria's allegiance to the Crown.

"Your Graces," she murmured, as everyone watched tensely. "You honour us with your presence. I pray that you enjoy your stay. Should I be able to do anything to ensure your comfort, I beseech you to inform me immediately of it."

Queen Cersei sneered at her, causing Robb's jaw to clench as his wife returned to her place, while Robert studied her coolly, an emotion in his eyes he hoped he was mistaken about.

"You look very much like your aunt, Princess Vitoria," he commented.

"So I have been told," she murmured. "I am given to understand that is a frequent consequence of two females having such a close relationship, Your Grace," Vitoria remarked bluntly response, face still expressionless. Ned knew her well enough to pick up on the subtle fury and loathing in her eyes, however, and he was relieved that nobody else seemed to spy it, and that she was so good at suppressing her anger. For one second he thought she'd become riled up at the mention of her aunt, who he could admit she did resemble greatly, but he was glad she kept her emotions under control.

Seemingly satisfied, Robert nodded and turned to Ned, and they had their respective children — and in Ned's case, grandchildren — brought forward, introduced, and approved of by both sides. Bran studied the royal family carefully and thoughtfully. Arya looked the weapons the guards held with carefully concealed lust in her eyes. Sansa gazed at them with blatant awe whilst Rickon, Leila and Alia, all less than five namedays old, tried not to fidget and Artos utterly ignored the royals in favour of messing with his mother's braid. Robb excused his one-year-old's unintentional rudeness, Robert waving him off indifferently, though the queen's lips were pursed so tightly it seemed as if they had disappeared.

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed. "The boy's barely more than a babe, how's he supposed to know any better? Anyway, let's get on with the rest, shall we?"

He was slightly surprised by Robert's eldest three trueborn children. As he had noted already, they were all mirror images of their mother. But they were very different in personality from their father also.

Crown Prince Joffrey put Ned off immediately, though he could not say why. The boy was clearly arrogant, but Ned did not think that was what bothered him. He and Robert had both been arrogant youths, after all. But they had not had the malicious, entitled edge to them that Joffrey seemed to have. Though it was too early to properly judge the boy, and he was Robert's eldest son, so Ned tried to put his unease aside as he greeted the other children. Prince Tommen was a shy, plump boy half-hidden in his mother's skirts, whilst Princess Myrcella was quite sweet. He would never have guessed that they were Baratheons at all, let alone Robert's children, were it not for the fact that he knew it was so already.

No sooner had the formalities of greeting been completed than Robert turned to Ned and said, "Take me down to your crypt, Ned. I would pay my respects."

He nodded, knowing that no other words were needed. The queen began to protest. They had been riding since dawn, everyone was tired and cold, surely they should refresh themselves first, she pointed out. The dead would wait. She had said no more than that; Robert had looked at her, and her twin brother Jaime had taken her quietly by the arm, and she fell silent. Vitoria nodded softly to Catelyn before both went to the queen, offering to show her to the rooms set aside for them with Artos still on his mother's hip, as Robb led the guards to show them around Winterfell and Sansa took over her siblings and niece, herding them back into their rooms in the keep.

Vitoria and Robb left the feast as soon as the plates had been cleared, with the primary intention to retire for the night, but after placing their children down to sleep and getting distracted in an empty hallway, they had decided to return to the celebrations.

Theon shot them a lewd smirk when they entered before raising his cup as if to toast when he saw them entering the hall again, understanding what they had been doing a few minutes before. The lack of adornments in her hair and Robb's top shirt buttons being undone made sure that those who knew them best would quickly catch on. To others, it would not be so easily noticeable. But, Vitoria's hair was free of jewelry, her cheeks were flushed and her already low neckline was hanging lower than it used to. To those who knew her it was quite obvious what had been happening.

Quickly, they wormed their way into the celebrations and within a short time, she was dancing the night away, doing her best to avoid her goodparents to avoid the conversation sure to come with Catelyn. The older woman had never liked her and she would jump at the chance to point out something she had done wrong, disregarding the fact that she wanted to make their guests from the South comfortable and she had not been South in years, unlike Vitoria.

She was laughing when she left Torrehn Karstark's arms, her arms above her head as the dance demanded, laughing and smiling as she expected to turn into Theon's hold, but instead found herself with Prince Joffrey's hands too tight and too low on her waist as he pressed her body closer to him than the dance needed and closer than it was considered proper.

"You are a rarity, to bloom this far from court," he said, catching her hand and stepping smoothly into the next set.

She supposed some would call him handsome, with his delicate hair and green eyes. But there was something sharp in his face that did not set her at ease. He looked too much like his mother, for her to ever be comfortable with him. "How is it that you were never sent to court? My mother would have welcomed you in her household."

Looking at the Queen, Vitoria was not so sure of that - the Queen had made it quite plain that she found everything about the North objectionable, and Vitoria might have been born in Dorne, but she was of the North now. And even so, it wasn't as if it would have changed things if she'd remained solely dornish. It was quite clear most of the other kingdoms saw dornishwomen as harlots and men as treasonous. But, she had adapted to the circumstances and was now as much a direwolf of Winterfell as she was a sun of Sunspear. The Queen would not welcome her in her household, that was quite clear.

Yet, it was rude to disagree with a Prince on such matters, though, so rather than argue, she smiled.

"I was ordered to wed north, your highness," she said, allowing a small smile . "I am to be the Lady of Winterfell-"

"I know that," the Prince said, rolling his eyes and pouting. "But just because you are wed to another man does not mean that you could not come to court. There have been many women who spent time at court without their husbands or betrotheds, over the years."

Her eyes narrowed as she understood what he was saying. She might not be as strait-laced as some ladies of the south, really, being from Dorne did not allow for that, but if she were to betray Robb she would do so with a man who at least interested her. The Prince was little more than a child, even if he was older than Sansa by a year.

"Just think of all the women Aegon the Unworthy kept about his court," Prince Joffrey continued, leering and staring directly down her gown. "You are at least pretty enough for that, even if we would never be able to be wed."

"I would rather not come to court at all, if it bears resemblance to that of Aegon the Fourth," Vitoria said carefully. "Tales are told of how unsafe and unwholesome a place that was for women of all births, and I will remain here instead, where there are those who I might trust to protect my honor."

The Prince laughed aloud at that, tipping back his hair in a tumble of bright hair and cruel eyes.

"Everyone knows you Northern girls are half-wild," he said, tugging her a little closer. "And tales are told of the women of Dorne, after all," his eyes once again found themselves in her bosom, "surely you would not object to being shown such favor?"

"She might object very much," Theon said, his voice stern as he slipped his arm between Vitoria and the Prince and pushed her carefully behind himself. "My princess is in need of some rest, your highness - forgive us, but we will leave the dance for a time. Please, do enjoy yourself."

Vitoria let Theon guide her away to where Bran was sitting with Arya, locked in a fierce discussion over something that was doubtless unimportant, and it was not until they stopped arguing that Vitoria noticed her hands were shaking.

Originally, the scene between Vitoria and Arya was in Vitoria's POV and it was shorter. But when I changed it to Arya's view, it more than doubled in size.