Hi, I wanted to request an Edmure Tully x reader where the reader is daughter to a bannermen of Robb’s(either a Bolton or a Karstark as I want reader to have some tension with her husband). She was fostered at Winterfell, under Cat’s care, so she and Robb knew each other before marriage. But after she notices her house begin to turn against Robb—whether that’s her father Roose taking notice of how Robb isn’t likely to win or because Robb executed her father Rickard Karstark—tensions grow in the marriage. Reader feels alone and no one seems to notice, except for Edmure. Reader would feel guilty for these feelings for a man so close to her husband, but Robb makes little effort to try and rectify their issues. She goes back and forth between feeling guilty when she has her suspicions that Robb had been sneaking around with Jeyne Westerling(or Talisa if you want to go off the show), so she feels she’s just as bad as him for feeling what she does for Edmure.
If you don’t want to write for Edmure, I think this could also work with Theon. It’d just have to be Talisa used rather than Jeyne since I think Talisa comes in earlier in the show than Jeyne does in the books. Overall, I kind of want this angsty marriage between Robb and his wife, which results in her growing a little too close to another man who’s close to her husband.
Sorry for the long request, and thanks for reading.
Winter Without Snow
- Summary: When Robb left you in the winter of your marriage, Edmure was there to keep you warm.
- A/N: Thank you for sending this to me, I've enjoyed writing it last night. 🙂
The hall is cold again tonight. You sit at the long table with the other northern lords, a half-full goblet of watered wine trembling slightly in your grip as the wind howls outside the stone walls. A draft seeps in through the cracks, carrying with it the scent of old rushes and distant smoke, but you hardly notice anymore. No one looks your way. Not Lady Mormont, stern and tight-lipped in her seat. Not Lord Bolton, with his pale eyes and careful silences. Not even Robb. Especially not Robb.
He is at the head of the table, his crown of bronze and iron casting specters in the candlelight as he leans in to speak with Lord Umber. His voice is low, measured. He speaks of troop movements, of supply lines, of men lost in the last skirmish with the Lannisters. Not once does he look at you. Not once does he speak your name. You could be a ghost in this hall—Rickard Karstark’s daughter, the wife of a king, forgotten like snowfall in spring.
You wrap your fingers tighter around the stem of your goblet and try not to shiver. The fire is far away, and the heat does not reach you. Neither does comfort. There is no room for comfort in war. Not for widows, not for daughters of executed traitors, not even for queens.
“Lady Karstark,” a voice says, low and uncertain, breaking through your thoughts.
You turn your head slowly, the sound of your title landing oddly in your ears. No one uses it much anymore. You are Robb’s queen, in name if nothing else. But when you look up, it is not your husband who stands beside you, but Edmure Tully.
His auburn hair is tangled from the wind, his cheeks flushed from wine or cold—you can’t tell. He has a softness in his eyes that no one else seems to wear anymore. It unsettles you more than it should.
“My lady,” he tries again, glancing toward the empty seat beside you. “May I?”
You nod before you think better of it. He sits, and for a moment, neither of you speak. You wonder if he feels it too—that awful quiet that gnaws at the edges of your soul, the space where your father used to be, where your husband should be. The silence left in the wake of war and a broken oath.
“I thought you might want company,” Edmure says, his voice gentle. “Or, at least... not solitude.”
You glance around. None of the others notice, and even if they did, what would they care? You’re the daughter of a dead traitor now. To most of them, you’re nothing more than a liability Robb has yet to cast off. But Edmure—he sees you. He always has.
“Thank you,” you murmur, staring into your wine. “I suppose I’ve had enough solitude for a lifetime.”
His smile is brief, a flicker of warmth before it fades. “You shouldn’t be alone. Not like this.”
You look at him then. Really look at him. There’s an earnestness in his eyes that pulls something taut in your chest. “Robb is... busy.”
“You’re his wife.”
“Not his war council.”
The bitterness in your voice surprises even you. It hangs between you like smoke.
Edmure hesitates, then leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “It wasn’t your fault, what happened. Your father… he made his choice. Robb made his.”
You flinch. “You think I don’t know that? Every lord in the North looks at me and sees his ghost. And Robb…” You shake your head, the words catching in your throat. “He hasn’t touched me since. Not once. Not even to look at me properly.”
Edmure’s brow furrows. “He should see you. Gods, you’re trying. He should see you.”
You hate the tears that rise at the gentleness in his voice. You blink them back, willing your face into something cold, something unreadable. You are a Karstark. You are not weak.
“I don’t blame him,” you whisper. “He lost so much. He’s grieving.”
“But so are you.”
That breaks something in you. Not in a loud, violent way—but in that quiet way ice cracks beneath the surface of a lake. Slowly. Irreversibly.
Your fingers brush against Edmure’s as you reach for the bread, and neither of you pull away fast enough. You stare down at your hand, his warmth still clinging to your skin, your breath caught behind your ribs. It is a dangerous thing, to feel seen. To feel something, anything, again.
“I shouldn’t be speaking to you like this,” you murmur. “You’re his uncle.”
“I’m your friend,” he says, and his voice is steady now. “If nothing else.”
You want to believe him. You want to believe there is still something left of you that is worth being called that.
Across the hall, Robb stands and calls for his lords. His voice is commanding, proud, the voice of a king—but not the voice you remember from Winterfell, when he would laugh with you beneath the Godswood trees, your hands brushing in the snow.
He does not glance your way as he leaves.
But Edmure does. His eyes linger, just long enough for the ache in your chest to sharpen into something dangerous.
You watch the fire burn low, the shadows stretch long, and wonder how long you can stay loyal to a man who no longer sees you… and how long you can deny the one who does.
The nights grow longer. Not in hours, but in weight. They press down on your chest like the stone lid of a tomb, quiet and suffocating. You lie awake in your chambers with your eyes on the beams above, fingers tangled in the wool of the furs that no longer hold the warmth of another. The hearth has gone cold again, the servants too frightened or forgetful to stoke the flames, and you do not summon them. You tell yourself you prefer the cold. You tell yourself it makes you feel closer to home. But Karhold was never this empty.
Sometimes you hear his footsteps—Robb’s—outside your door, the soft tread of boots on stone. Sometimes you think he’ll knock. That he’ll come in and speak your name again as if it means something. But he never does. Lately, you’ve stopped hoping.
And then there's her. Jeyne Westerling. Pretty enough, in the way girls are when they know how to tilt their head just so, when they cry at just the right moment to earn sympathy. You saw them once, too close in the corridor of a ruined keep, his hand brushing her back as he leaned in. You weren’t meant to see. You weren't meant to be there. She looked at you with wide brown eyes, as if you were the one out of place. Robb didn’t even react.
You said nothing. Of course you said nothing. What could you say? The man who had once kissed your knuckles in the snow, who had claimed he would always honor your name, now couldn’t even look you in the eye. You told yourself it was grief, still. That it was the war, the death, the crown. You told yourself you were being cruel to think otherwise. But the quiet between you has grown teeth.
When you see Edmure again, it’s beneath the godswood, far from the noise of tents and swords and voices echoing with orders. He is feeding a raven from his palm, bits of dried meat and crumbled bread. The bird picks delicately, cocking its head at him as if in judgment. You stand a moment and watch, arms folded against the wind, before he notices.
“You have a soft heart for such a grim thing,” you say, your voice light, but raw beneath it.
Edmure turns, startled, then offers a smile. “I’ve always liked them. Messengers. Carriers of truth, no matter how bloody.” He wipes his hand on his cloak and straightens, looking at you the way no one else does anymore—not as a widow of the living, not as the daughter of the condemned, but you.
You step toward him, unsure why you’ve come. You shouldn't be here. And yet, you are. “And what truth would this one carry, I wonder?”
“That you’re not alone.” He says it softly, and the wind dares not blow for a moment after.
You look away. The trees do not whisper here like they do in the North, but the gods are always listening. You feel them. Or perhaps it's only guilt pressing in again. “You shouldn’t say such things. I am the queen.”
“And I’m a fool who’s said worse,” he replies, half-laughing, though his eyes are serious. “But I meant it. I’ve watched you carry silence like a blade. It must be heavy by now.”
You breathe out, and it’s almost a laugh. Almost. “Do you know what it’s like? To lie in bed and wonder if your husband is lying with someone else while his men march and die for his name?”
His expression falters, the levity draining from it. He does not answer. And you do not need him to.
“I saw them,” you admit, voice low. “Robb and Jeyne. He thought I wouldn’t. He’s a king, after all. And I… I’m just the reminder of a man he beheaded.”
“He’s a fool, then,” Edmure says, voice hard in a way you’ve never heard. “If he cannot see the woman he married. The woman he’s betrayed.”
You wince. “And I’m just as bad. I look at you and I—” The words choke. You don’t know how to finish them.
Edmure steps closer, hesitant, but not afraid. “You don’t have to say it.”
“But I feel it,” you whisper. “Gods help me, I feel it. And every time I see you, I wonder how far I’ve already fallen.”
His hand hovers at your elbow but does not touch. “Then let us fall together, if we must.”
You meet his eyes, and in them is not just desire—but understanding. That awful, aching need to be known in a world where grief drowns everything else. You don't touch. Not yet. The gods might be watching, but it’s not the gods you fear. It’s yourself.
“I can’t,” you say finally. “Not yet.”
Edmure nods, stepping back, giving you the air you didn’t know you were desperate for. “Then I’ll wait.”
The words linger long after he’s gone, and they haunt you worse than Robb’s silence.
Because for the first time in moons, someone is willing to stay.
