Arya II
A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall, his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.
She could see it all or she thought she could from the first tables below the high ones, which still rose above the others.
By the high seat was her father, standing rigid while Ser Jory barked orders to the servants next to him.
He seemed like a snow stump on an oven, as Sansa had mentioned a while ago. Her father looked around, his eyes shifting across the hall.
The Great Hall had transformed into something almost unrecognizable, long tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, venison pies, loaves of dark bread, and bowls of steaming stew.
Torches and braziers burned bright, casting flickering golden light across stone walls draped with fresh banners.
Smoke curled toward the high rafters, carrying the rich scents of roasted meat, spiced ale, and warm bread.
Everything felt… festive.
People filled every corner. Smallfolk who had been invited for the Young Wolf's nameday mingled with guards, servants, and bannermen.
Laughter rang out in bursts, cups slammed against tables.
Children darted between legs, chasing one another with wooden swords.
Her eyes drifted toward the center of the hall where the Winter Sons had gathered, Robb and Jon sat together at the heart of their table, surrounded by the boys and men who had ridden with them.
Tankards were being passed freely.
Robb was laughing, his face flushed as he poured rum into cups held out by eager hands.
Jon, however, sat more stiffly beside him. He accepted a cup when it was pressed into his hand but barely sipped.
Her gaze shifted further.
The Martell banners, the sun and spear of Dorne had been placed noticeably to the left side of the high table, pushed away from the place of honor.
Their tables sat lower, almost as if deliberately distanced, Arya frowned as she remembered how proudly the Dornish had arrived, yet tonight they seemed… set aside, like honored guests who were still not quite family.
Sansa and Arianne sat near each other but weren't speaking, Sansa picked at her food with perfect poise, occasionally glancing toward the high table, Arianne was beautiful in a deep red gown that clung to her like liquid fire, sipped wine and stared into the distance.
The silence between them felt heavy.
The Sand Snakes, however, were clustered together at their own table, talking among themselves. Obara gestured wildly with a chicken leg while Tyene laughed brightly, and Nymeria leaned back with a sly smile, saying something that made her sisters burst into laughter.
She started to rise from her seat, intending to slip over and join them. She liked the Sand Snakes — they were wild and funny and didn't treat her like a little girl.
But before she could take two steps, her mother's hand caught her wrist.
Catelyn Stark shook her head firmly, a silent but unmistakable no.
Arya frowned.
"Why shouldn't I?" she whispered, tugging lightly against her mother's grip.
Catelyn leaned down, voice low but steady. "It is not the right time to disturb our guests, Sit."
Arya grumbled but obeyed, slumping back into her seat with a dramatic sigh. She crossed her arms and continued watching the hall instead.
A moment later, her mother rose gracefully from the high table. Ser Rodrik Cassel, standing nearby in his finest armor, stepped forward and boomed in his powerful voice, "Quiet! Quiet down, all of you! The Lady of Winterfell would speak!"
The hall fell into a gradual hush.
Conversations died and tankards were lowered and even the singer paused his harp mid-note.
Her mother stood tall, auburn hair gleaming in the firelight, her blue eyes sweeping across the gathered crowd. She raised her voice clearly, carrying to every corner of the hall.
"I never wished for Robb to be my son."
A ripple of surprise went through the hall. Several lords squinted in confusion. A few smallfolk exchanged puzzled glances and whispers broke out immediately.
But neither her father nor Robb seemed bothered.
Her father watched his wife with a small, knowing smile. Robb leaned back in his chair, grinning widely, tankard still in hand.
She continued, her voice warm and steady. "I never wished for him to be my son… because he already felt like one from the very first day I held him. And yet, I could never thank the old gods enough for giving him to me. For he is everything a mother could wish for, dutiful, brave, and a boy wise beyond his years. Now a man grown. He rode into the wilds of the North at only one-and-ten, faced cutthroats and bandits, and returned to us stronger, having slain the beasts that threatened our people."
She raised her jug high. "I thank the men of the Winter Sons, those who fought beside him, those who fell shielding him, and those who stand with him still. You have my eternal gratitude."
A massive howl and cheer erupted from the Winter Sons' table. Robb slammed his tankard down and roared along with them, face flushed with pride. Jon smiled quietly beside him, raising his own cup.
Her voice softened as she turned toward her husband.
"I thank my lord husband, Eddard Stark, for giving me such a son." Ned inclined his head, eyes warm.
"And finally," she said, raising her voice once more, "I thank the old gods and the new for watching over him. Now drink your fills, men of Winterfell. Dance your hearts full. Tonight we celebrate not just a nameday, but the return of my son and the Young Wolf!"
The hall exploded into cheers and the singer struck up a new tune, one everyone knew.
The Bear and the Maiden Fair.
A loud, joyous cheer went up as men and women surged toward the cleared space in the center of the hall.
The lively, bawdy song filled the air, feet already stomping in time with the rhythm. Guards joined in, laughing. Young men from the Winter Sons leaped forward eagerly, pulling girls and even each other into the dance.
Arya watched, grinning, as the Sand Snakes smirked at one another before rising together.
Obara went straight for a tall guard, Haden, Arya thought his name was, grabbing him by the front of his tunic and pulling him roughly into the dance.
The poor man looked stunned but quickly matched her wild energy.
Tyene, ever graceful, caught a young servant girl by the hand and pulled her close, twirling her around with surprising gentleness.
The girl's face turned bright red as Tyene held her by the hip, laughing brightly.
And then Arya grinned wider as Nymeria caught Jon's hand and dragged the reluctant boy into the center of the hall.
Jon's face was a mixture of embarrassment and amusement as Nymeria spun him around. Robb nearly fell off his chair laughing at his half-brother's suffering.
The hall pulsed with life, music, stomping feet, laughter, and the warmth of shared joy.
—------
Eddard VII
He stood at the wide stone archway that led from the Great Hall out into the snowy yard, the roar of the feast behind him fading into a distant clamor.
The night air was cutting through the warmth that clung to his cloak and above, dark clouds loomed heavy on the northern horizon, swallowing the stars one by one.
He breathed in deeply, the cold filling his lungs, for a moment, the weight of the hall, the laughter, the music, the clashing tankards felt distant. Almost foreign.
Footsteps approached from behind, light but deliberate and he turned.
Oberyn stepped up beside him, red cloak billowing slightly in the wind.
The Red Viper's face was relaxed, almost amused, but his dark eyes missed nothing as they flicked toward the gathering storm.
"You did not dance, Lord Eddard," Oberyn observed, leaning casually against the stone arch. "It is an ill thing for a man not to celebrate his own son's nameday. Especially when he is the host. A host should set the example, should he not?"
Ned offered a small, tired smile.
"This has always felt foreign to me. The North never cared much for such things. My father surely never did, even in the Vale, namedays were quiet affairs, a meal, perhaps a toast. Not… this." He gestured vaguely back toward the hall where the men had given way to rowdier songs and stomping feet.
Oberyn nodded slowly, studying him.
"I have seen rigid men before, Lord Stark but none quite as rigid as you." A faint smile touched his lips. "Still, I have made men dance before. I will make you dance too, if it comes to it."
He shook his head, the ghost of a chuckle escaping him. "There is much I need to speak with you about, Prince Oberyn. And I believe you already know what I wish to discuss."
The Dornishmen chuckled softly, the sound low and knowing.
"One of the things I like about this place, there is no diddling about, no coating words with honey. Always the words, straight and true." He paused, then continued more seriously. "I will not drag this out longer than necessary, you wish to annul the betrothal."
Ned met his eyes squarely. "It is so."
For a long moment, only the wind and distant music filled the space between them. Ned turned his gaze back to the dark clouds, choosing his words with care.
This was not mere personal preference, this was the future of his house, his people, his land.
"I believed, for a time, that the Starks and Martells could be tied in blood," Ned said quietly. "That our houses might strengthen one another. But the North has always taken care of itself. I thought trade might sway the minds of my lords but I seem to have forgotten that the North does not value gold as much as words and oaths, the lords see a Dornish princess as… foreign, a complication and I cannot rule against the will of the North itself."
He turned fully to face Oberyn, looking the Red Viper directly in the eyes.
There was no anger in his voice, only solemn resolve.
"I mean no dishonor to House Martell," he said firmly. "I break this betrothal solely because I believe it is not the best course for my house or my people. I am prepared to accept whatever repercussions may come."
Oberyn let out a long breath and shook his head slowly, almost regretfully. "I expected better from you, Lord Stark."
Ned remained silent, waiting.
Oberyn reached into his cloak and withdrew a parchment, sealed with the sun-and-spear crest of House Martell. He held it out.
Ned accepted it, breaking the wax with his thumb. His eyes scanned the elegant script, widening slightly in surprise as he read.
Oberyn watched him carefully. "My brother has written a new charter. Dorne requires large quantities of lumber for new longboats and trade ships. Prince Doran wishes the North to supply it all, at fair prices, of course."
He looked up, doubt clear on his face. "I break the betrothal… and I am rewarded with trade?"
Oberyn's smile was sharp but not unkind. "The betrothal was never meant to be only about blood, Lord Stark. It was about binding our houses. Even if that particular knot is undone, it does not mean everything falls apart." He shrugged lightly. "I would not wish to lose an honest place like this. Nor an honest man."
He studied the parchment again, then folded it carefully. "I am thankful you have taken no lasting displeasure in this."
Oberyn pulled back slightly, his expression shifting. "I never said I was not displeased."
His eyes narrowed as he saw Oberyn grin widened, sharp and dangerous. "While I might be displeased, there is a way I could be turned toward joy."
Both men turned their heads at the same moment as a massive cheer erupted from inside the hall.
Through the archway, they could see the center of the floor where the dancing had grown wild.
Robb and Arianne were in the middle of it all.
Robb danced with unrestrained energy, stomping, spinning, laughing while Arianne moved around him with graceful, almost serpentine elegance, her red gown swirling like flame.
The contrast was striking.
Oberyn chuckled softly. "It seems it is time, Lord Stark. Go. Join your son in the hall."
Ned let out a long, heavy sigh. The weight of the conversation settled on his shoulders like fresh snow. He gave Oberyn one final nod, respectful, if weary and turned back toward the warmth and noise of the feast.
His face remained grim as he stepped inside.