Robb Stark: The Wolf King (2)
Pairing: Widowed!Robb Stark x Reader
Summary: The moment it was announced that you would marry Robb Stark, nearly every book ever written about the North was placed in your hands. You read about their customs, their history, their strange old traditions. You had prepared yourself for a northern wedding, yet no words written on those pages could truly compare to the ceremony itself.
Warning: The use of y/n(once), mentions of alcohol and being drunk, like mentions sex but none yet.
Part I
Word Count: 3,277
Taglist: @ateliefloresdaprimavera @princessx22
a/n: Hey again y'all! Sorry this part took so longggg! But after writing the first draft it I completely hated it and had to rewrite sooo Here we are, Thanks for waiting. Also, I'm having a maester officiate the wedding cause usually it's supposed to be the grooms papi but obvs...ned is unavailable. This is lowk a slow chapter but listen listen we building up to the good stuff so trust. Enjoy!
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Almost as soon as you and Robb stepped back into the ballroom, you were swept in opposite directions. He was immediately pulled away by the northern lords and ladies, each eager for a word with their king, while your own mother and sisters descended upon you with equal enthusiasm.
That was, until your mother noticed your appearance.
Your hair was slightly windswept, your gown bore the evidence of an ill-fated climb through a wall of vines... and draped around your shoulders was Robb Stark's heavy wool cloak.
She let out a quiet gasp, her hand moving to cover her mouth.Â
"...Did you?"
"Mother!" you hissed, heat rushing to your cheeks. "Of course not!"
A knowing smile spread across her face as she linked her arm through yours.
"Oh, darling, thereâs nothing to be ashamed of."
"I am not ashamed. Nothing happened. "
"No?"
"No!"
She hummed, clearly unconvinced, before taking a delicate sip of wine.
"What a shame."
You scoff.
"When it was announced that your father was seeking a wife, I invited him for an evening stroll through the Water Gardens."
"...Mother."
"We were gone for quite some time."
"Mother."
You stared at her in horror.
"What? I merely made certain he remembered me.â
âPlease stop talking."
She gave your arm an innocent pat.
"Oh, dear. Go fetch yourself a glass of wine, you are in high need of one. And while you're at it, bring me another."
Between your mother's shameless stories and your sisters' relentless teasing, your strange encounter with Robb was quickly forgotten. By the time the musicians struck their final tune and the last guests retired for the evening, you hadn't spoken to your betrothed again.
Not that there had been much opportunity.
Whenever you caught sight of him across the ballroom, he was surrounded by northern lords discussing politics or old comrades congratulating their king. At most, your eyes would meet for the briefest of moments before one of you was pulled away once more.
The days that followed passed in much the same fashion.
The wedding preparations moved with alarming speed. Tailors, jewelers, and servants seemed determined to wed the King in the North before either of you had the chance to catch your breath.
Despite sharing the same castle, you and Robb barely exchanged more than a lingering glance or the occasional reassuring smile.
You were, after all, strangers preparing to become husband and wife.
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Your wedding gown was unlike anything worn by northern women.
Made from the finest Dornish silk, the fabric moved like water with every step, light and flowing where northern gowns were often heavy and structured. Its deep golden hue was a quiet reminder of the lands you had left behind, embroidered with delicate patterns of desert flowers and winding vines.
The sleeves were long enough to honor the solemnity of the ceremony, yet the gown still carried the unmistakable elegance of Dorne. Fine golden thread traced the neckline and waist, catching what little moonlight managed to break through the ancient branches of the godswood.
You carried the warmth of the south with you.
Around your shoulders rested your maiden's cloak, far lighter than the lightest furs worn by northern women. Soon, however, it would be removed.
Soon, you would wear the cloak of House Stark.
Your father sniffed beside you, quickly looking away.
"Don't tell me you're getting emotional, Father," you teased.
"Of course not," he replied gruffly. "It is only the northern air. I find it rather unpleasant."
You smiled, linking your arm through his.
"I'll miss you too, Father."
For a moment, his expression softened.
Then, as though remembering himself, his face grew serious once more. He turned toward you suddenly.
"My girl..."
You looked at him.
"If anything should ever happen... if you ever feel unsafe, if you ever find yourself in danger, you come home. Do you understand? Dorne will protect you. I will protect you."
"Father..."
"It is not lost on me how far away you are." His voice lowered. "Nor the dangers that come with it. The North is not our home. These people are not our people. If anything were to happen to youâ"
"Father," you said gently but firmly. "I will be alright."
He fell silent.
"I am queen here. These people are my people now."
For a moment, he only looked at you.
Then he nodded, though you could see he was not entirely convinced.
"Just remember..."
His gaze moved toward the godswood ahead.
"Dorne will always be your home."
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The ceremony was... quiet.
Unsettlingly so.
There were no musicians.
No endless recitation from a septon.
Only the whisper of wind through the crimsom leaves.
Then you finally reach Robb.
A Maester steps forward, the links of his chain catching the warm glow of the lanterns.
"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"
Your father drew himself up proudly.
"Y/N of House Martell. Princess of Dorne, comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to seek the blessing of the Old Gods."
The Maester nods.
"Who comes to claim her?"
Robb stepped forward, his voice was calm, unwavering.
"Robb of House Stark. King in the North. Lord of Winterfell."
"Who gives her?"
For the first time that evening, your father hesitated.
The silence settled heavily between the ancient trees.
His jaw tightened, and though he had promised himself he would not falter, you saw the battle play across his face.
"Her father." He answers, at last.
The Maester turned toward you.
"My lady...will you take this man?"
Your eyes found Robb's and those pale blue-grey eyes captured yours without warning, patient and impossibly gentle.
For reasons you couldn't quite explain, your heartbeat steadied.
"I take this man."
As though the old gods themselves had been waiting for those words, a cold breeze stirred the godswood.
The crimson leaves of the heart tree whispered overhead, their branches swaying softly against the night sky. All around you, the ancient forest seemed to awaken.
For a fleeting moment, it felt as though the entire godswood was celebrating the union, the quiet whispers carrying through the ancient grove.
Robb turned to you, offering his hand.
Without hesitation, you placed yours in his.
His fingers were unexpectedly warm. Not that you had expected them to be cold, but there was something about him so composed, so stoic, that made him seem like stone. Hand in hand, you knelt beneath the carved face of the heart tree. Its pale bark watched over you.
You bowed your head and quietly recited prayers you had practiced, while beside you, Robb offered his own silent devotion to the Old Gods.
When at last you rose, only one tradition remained.
Robb stepped toward you.
Carefully, almost reverently, he reached for the clasp fastening your Martell cloak.
With practiced hands, he unfastened it and let the warm golden fabric slip gently from your shoulders.
For the briefest of moments, you stood between two worlds.
No longer solely a daughter of Dorne.
Not yet fully of the North.
Then Robb lifted the Stark cloak and the weight of thick northern wool settled across your shoulders, far heavier than the silk you had worn only moments before.
It felt warm. Protective.
The familiar weight of the cloak made you pause.
Your thoughts drifted back to the engagement feast, to tangled vines, and to a northern king who had draped this very cloak over your shoulders without a second thought.
A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it.
Across from you, you caught the faintest curve at the corner of Robb's mouth.
He was remembering it too.
And at last. It was over. You were officially a Stark, by law, by tradition, and before the Old Gods themselves.
You drew in a slow breath, finally allowing yourself to release the one you hadn't realized you'd been holding.
Without warning, Robb stepped closer.
Before you could ask what he was doing, one arm slipped behind your knees while the other settled around your back.
The ground disappeared beneath your feet.
A startled squeak escaped you as you instinctively threw your arms around his neck.
"Whaâ"
"Tradition," he answered simply.
You blinked at him.
"...Tradition?"
"The groom carries his bride to the feast."
You narrowed your eyes.
"Curious."
"Hm?"
"I have read every book on northern customs, and yet none of them mentioned this tradition."
A ghost of a smile crossed his face.
"Were those the same books that insisted I become a wolf after dark?"
You huffed.
"I have decided I no longer like your sense of humor."
"I gathered as much."
"Well," you said with as much dignity as one could manage while being carried through the godswood, "you may put me down now."
"I'm afraid I cannot."
"And why not?"
"Because then I'd be breaking tradition."
"Oh and we certainly can't have that."
His smile grew enough to be noticeable.
"No."
You sighed dramatically.
"...Very well."
After a moment, curiosity got the better of you.
"How far must you carry me?"
"To the feast hall."
Your eyes widened. "The entire way?"
"Aye."
"...Thatâs terribly inconvenient."
"So I've been told."
The walk truly wasn't long. Before you knew it, the great doors of the feast hall were swung open and the room erupted.
Lords pounded their cups against the tables.
Knights cheered.
Voices echoed from every corner of the hall, celebrating their king and his new queen.
The sudden roar startled you.
Instinctively, you buried your face against Robb's shoulder, hoping to disappear beneath the thick folds of his cloak.
For the briefest moment, you felt his steps falter.
But of course, he said nothing.
He simply adjusted his hold on you, his arms tightening ever so slightly as he carried you through the hall.
Steady.
As though to remind you that he was there to keep you safe.
He carried you all the way to the high table, where both your families awaited.
The Starks sat to Robb's right, while your own family occupied the places beside yours. For the first time that evening, the reality of it settled over you.
Queen.
Queen of the North.
A year ago, you had never imagined setting foot in Winterfell. Now, you sat at its highest table.
"The ceremony was beautiful," your mother said warmly, lifting her goblet.
Beside her, Lady Catelyn smiled.
"Aye. I believe you shall make a fine match."
Robb glanced toward you, amusement flickering across his face.
"I fear I have already failed as a husband. My lady informed me that my sense of humor leaves much to be desired."
Heat rushed to your cheeks.
"I never said that. I merely suggested you aren't nearly as amusing as you believe yourself to be."
"Finally," Sansa declared.
Arya grinned. âSomeone had to say itâ Â
"Perhaps we'll have an heir to celebrate before winter comes," your mother said with a hopeful smile.
Lady Catelyn politely raised her goblet.
"A blessing for both our houses."
Beside you, Robb went still.
The smile disappeared from his face so quickly you almost wondered if you'd imagined it.
Your fingers brushed against his hand lightly beneath the table.
Before you could say a word, he was already rising.
He clears his thought, âI just recalled, there are some matter I should attend toâ He bows his head to you and that was it. He was off and you were left feeling confused and a bit hurt.Â
"Forgive me," he said quietly. "There are matters requiring my attention."
He inclined his head toward you before disappearing into the crowd
"Forgive him," Lady Catelyn said softly.
"My son has never been very good at remembering that, for a few hours at least, he is allowed to be a groom before he is a king."
You nodded.
But you noticed the way her eyes lingered on the doorway long after he had gone.
She knew.
Whatever had just happened...
She knewÂ
You tried not to sulk. You truly did.
But it was rather difficult when everyone else seemed to be enjoying your wedding far more than you were.
Your mother was already laughing with your father over something whispered behind a goblet of wine. Sansa and your sisters had somehow gathered an audience of young knights, all of whom appeared entirely too eager to impress them.
Arya was...
You frowned.
"...Where is Arya?"
You scanned the hall.
Nothing.
Not beneath the banners, not near the musicians, not even under the tables.
That girl was positively unsettling.
A passing servant paused beside you with a silver tray laden with goblets.
"My lady?"
You shouldn't.
You really shouldn't.
You accepted one anyway.
One sip.
Your eyes widened.
Northern wine was... surprisingly wonderful.
You looked back toward the servant.
"...Another, please."
He smiled and obliged.
That one disappeared just as quickly.
Then another.
And another.
By the time the servant returned once more, he hesitated.
"This one is for my husband."
The moment he turned away, you emptied the goblet.
Moments later, a familiar voice sounded beside you.
"...My queen?"
You beamed up at him.
"My husband!"
Robb glanced from your bright smile to the collection of empty goblets.
One.
Two.
Three.
"How many cups have you had?"
You considered the question with remarkable seriousness.
"...Several."
He closed his eyes for the briefest moment.
"I really like northern wine," you informed him proudly.
"So I see."
"I thought northern food would be dreadful."
"..."
"It isn't."
"..."
"Though, I still believe your cooks have an unfortunate relationship with seasoning."
A corner of his mouth twitched.
"But I could fix that," you continued brightly. "My first royal decree!"
"My lady," Robb said patiently, "I believe you've had quite enough wine."
"No."
"I believe we should retire."
"No."
Then something caught your attention.
The musicians had begun another tune.
Couples filled the floor, laughing as they danced beneath the banners of Winterfell.
You gasped.
"We haven't danced."
"Pardon?"
"Everyone else is dancing."
He followed your gaze and sighed.
"My lady..."
"I shall go willingly..."
Hope flickered across his face.
"if you dance with me."
He regarded you for a long moment.
"...One dance."
You grinned triumphantly.
"I promise."
The dance began with admirable confidence that lasted approximately three steps.
Wrong foot.
Wrong direction.
Your slipper caught the hem of your gown.
Then came the unmistakable sensation of your heel landing squarely atop Robb's boot.
You winced.
"Did I kill your foot?"
"Not quite."
"I'm dreadful."
He watched the other couples for a moment before looking back at you.
"You're trying too hard."
"Am I?"
"Stop following the music."
You blinked.
"What?"
"Follow me."
He slides one hand carefully to your waist and pulls you closer.
Much closer.
Just enough that you could feel him as he guided you into a slower rhythm.
After a comfortable silence, Robb spoke.
"About earlier..."
You smiled sleepily and shook your head.
"You may apologize when I'm sober."
A quiet laugh escaped him.
"Deal."
Without either of you noticing, the dancing gradually stopped.
Not the music.
Just the steps.
Somewhere along the way, you had forgotten about the pattern entirely, content simply to sway together while the celebration carried on around you.
Sansa nudged Arya.
"Look."
Arya glanced toward the dance floor.
"...They're even not really dancing."
Across the hall, Lady Catelyn watched her son with quiet relief.
For the first time that evening, he wasn't wearing the weight of a kingdom.
He was simply enjoying a dance with his wife.
The music eventually faded, and the hall slowly returned to its usual rhythm.
You blinked, almost startled, as though waking from a dream.
Robb cleared his throat beside you, though the faint amusement in his eyes betrayed him.
"I believe you promised me you would retire for the evening."
You frowned.
"I did?"
"You did."
"That sounds like something I would say."
"It was."
You looked toward the dance floor, where the celebration continued without you.
"But everyone is still having fun."
"My lady."
"And the wine is still there."
His brows lifted.
"Ah. So that is the true tragedy."
You looked back at him, completely serious.
"It is a very good wine."
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
A real one.
And for a moment, you simply stared.
There it was again.
That smile you had first seen years ago. The one that made him look less like a king and more like the boy who had offered you his favor at a tourney.
"Come," he said softly. "Before you decide the entire North must be convinced to improve their cooking and wine."
You followed him toward the doors, though your steps slowed the moment you left the warmth of the hall.
"I have changed my mind."
Robb stopped.
"...About?"
"Leaving."
"You made a promise."
"I have reconsidered."
"That is not the same thing."
"It is when I do it."
He stared at you.
Then, slowly, he sighed.
"Gods help me."
You grinned.
"You cannot abandon your queen."
"I am beginning to understand why they warned me about Dornish women."
You gasped.
"Is that a complaint?"
"Not yet."
Before you could argue further, he carefully lifted you into his arms.
You let out a startled sound, immediately grabbing onto his shoulders.
"Robb Stark!"
"Aye?"
"This is highly undignified."
"So was attempting to climb a wall to escape your engagement."
You narrowed your eyes.
"I was not stuck."
"You were absolutely stuck."
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
"...That is irrelevant."
A small smile tugged at his lips.
"Of course."
You rested your head against his shoulder, still pretending to be offended.
"Is this another northern tradition?"
"No."
You looked up suspiciously.
"Then why are you doing it?"
"Because you can barely walk straight."
You considered this.
"...Fair."
By the time you reached your chambers, your embarrassment had returned tenfold.
Robb set you down gently, and you immediately noticed a man standing nearby.
Your brows furrowed.
"Is he here for..."
You lowered your voice.
"...the bedding ceremony?"
The amusement disappeared from Robb's face.
The warmth vanished.
The king returned.
"You. State your purpose."
The man straightened quickly.
"Your Grace, the maester sent me to observe theâ"
"That will not be necessary."
"Butâ"
Robb stepped forward.
"Must I repeat myself?"
The man immediately bowed and hurried away.
You watched him disappear, surprised.
"I did not think it was possible for someone to look frightened without running."
Robb exhaled.
"One tradition I have never cared for."
He opened the door for you.
You entered the room, immediately drawn to the warmth of the thick furs covering the bed.
For the first time all evening, you felt the exhaustion settle over you.
You turned back toward him.
Only to find him still standing at the doorway.
"Aren't you coming?"
The question left your mouth before you could stop it.
For a moment, Robb looked almost startled.
Then his expression softened.
"You are tired."
You frowned slightly.
"I am."
"And you have had far too much wine."
You looked away, suddenly feeling foolish.
"I see."
The silence stretches.
"Goodnight, my lady."
The words were gentle.
But somehow they hurt worse.
You forced a small smile.
"Goodnight, Robb."
He hesitated.
As though there was something else he wanted to say.
But then he bowed his head and left.
The door closed quietly behind him.
And you were left alone.
Not afraid.
That was the strangest part.
You were not afraid of the man you had spent weeks fearing.
You were disappointed.
And somehow, that felt far more dangerous.
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