The roaring hearth of Winterfell did little to warm Robb Stark’s mood. He sat at the heavy oak table, staring blankly into his cup of ale while his friends and family cheered around him.

The Great Hall was loud with talk of his upcoming marriage. A political alliance had bound him to a baratheon princess from the south, a woman he had never laid eyes upon.

"They say her beauty is unmatched, Robb!" Theon Greyjoy laughed, giving Robb a heavy nudge on the shoulder. "Golden hair, skin like milk, and eyes like the summer sky. You strike a lucky bargain."

Maester Luwin nodded gently from across the table. "A fair face brings grace to a courtyard, Lord Robb. The reports from the maesters of her home speak highly of her elegance."

Robb sighed, tracing the rim of his cup. "I do not doubt her beauty," he said, his voice flat and devoid of excitement. "They say she moves like poetry and sings like a highborn angel."