In the morning, Robb awoke with a headache that he knew he'd rightly earned. He felt like shit, and last night, he was shit. He let his jealousy take hold and nearly caused a rift between himself and his beautifully patient yet powerful wife. Rolling over, his eyes landed on her decorated back. All the different markings meant something to her, yet the only ones he understood were the different moons that climbed up and down her spine. Reaching out, his fingers lightly traced the moons. His eyes strained to take in every detail of the curve of her back. Fearing that he'd wake her, he halted his movements and simply stared at her.

"Why did you stop? It felt nice." Her voice rang out in the quiet room. Vader seemed to agree with her as he purred in contentment. Vader usually mimicked his master's disposition.

Relief washed over Robb. She was no longer angry with him.

He kissed her bare shoulder in affection. Twisting, her soft lips met his. As she pulled back, she noted the circles under his eyes and pale complexion. He was hungover, and it entertained her.

"Robb, you look like shit." His eyes widened at her blatant remark. As her laughter flooded the room, he could not resist joining her. He did, in fact, look like shit.

"That's not very nice." He teased as he moved to pull her into his arms. She did not fight him. His arms were a place of safety.

"I can't begin to apologize for last night. You were doing my family a great service, and I questioned you. It will not happen again."

"I want you to tell me when I'm wrong Robb, but don't question my love for you. That will remain constant." He pressed his lips to her forehead.

"We can stay in bed today. If you wish?" Robb offered in a quiet voice.

"No, we have a Lannister in Winterfell. It is best to win him over. I will need you and Jon. Do not bring Theon. I'm unsure of his loyalty."

Robb frowned at her, "What? He's like a brother."

"Like is the keyword. He may be your friend, but he is not Stark blood." Shifting out of his arms, she moved to change her clothes. Sansa had gifted her with a new gown. A midnight blue strapless gown dawning a pronounced sweetheart neckline. The gown had embroidered with flowers that were native only in the North. If one looked closely, some flowers even possessed frost detailing. The gown came with a strapless lace overlay, topped with a sheer cape covering her shoulders. It, too, had floral detailing.

Running her hands through her long hair, she easily rid herself of the tangles that formed during her sleep. Her ears needed to remain hidden. It pained her to not be able to be creative with her hair. It was and is an outlet for her many thoughts. Restricting herself to leaving her hair down was awkward to her.

Meanwhile, Robb followed her lead, but he knew he needed a bath. He smelled like a barrel of ale, unbefitting of a future lord.

"I'll see you in the hall for morning fast." He muttered as he stared at the empty bathing basin.

"Sure. I'll send Gwen in to draw you a bath. Your thoughts are too cloudy for you to do it yourself. Relax." She blew him a kiss and left.

Robb glanced at Vader who continued to purr. "Why did she blow her hand at me?" Vader stretched in reply.

"I'm talking to a cat. That ale must have stayed with me more than I thought."

......

"Ah, Lady Stark. How kind of you to join us!" Great Jon yelled with a smile. The other lords murmured their agreement. Clearly, they were nursing a hangover. How he managed to not be hungover was beyond Zipporah. The only other Lord who seemed to be up and at them was the little lion of Lannisport. He lifted his mug as he nodded at her. He was drinking in the morning?

Her mind flashed to a celebration two years ago...when news broke out that Luke Skywalker was alive and there was a map leading to his location. The Rebellion had thrown party that raged for days. She had never seen that much alcohol pass through the planet. Men had drank 24-7 on the base. Whatever could take the edge off. Fighting an army of brainwashed, faceless individuals wore down even the strongest. It would have been better if the stormtroopers were choosing to fight because they believed in the cause of the First Order, but that was simply not the case. How many tie fighters had she shot down?

Reality set in; she wasn't a pilot anymore. She was a wife and a future mother. There wouldn't be anymore faceless men fighting against her and her wolves. They'd all have names, families, and allegiances. How many would die before the plotters were stopped?

Shaking the anxiety she felt, she nodded back to the small lord. Checking in on his thinking, she noted that his mental sharpness was already dulled and influencing him would be much easier. Smiling at the room, she moved to sit across from Tyrion. He was dressed in the same clothes as the night before, fine golden and burgundy linens, crafted with care. The clothing was also heavily layered. Clearly, the southerner was not prepared for the frigid North.

"My lady, what do I owe this honor?" He blurted out as he signaled one of the servants for a refill. The young boy scurried over and swiftly poured more ale into his cup.

"I've sat, eaten, and drank with the northern lords but not a southern one."

"You danced with a Martell." He raised his eyebrows in challenge.

"Doesn't count, he's a prince." She teased as she grabbed a breakfast roll. Hunger was gnawing at her, and she had to remind herself that she was eating for two. Taking a bite, she allowed time to pass, for him to mull over their banter.

"Touché." He chuckled. He mentally complimented her wit. It was difficult for her to not respond back mentally. All of these restrictions annoyed her.

"So tell me Lord Lannister, what really brought you here?" She quirked her right brow at him in challenge.

"I had to see if the rumors that drifted from the North were true. If the North had a goddess..."

"I see. So curiosity then? I could hardly blame you. Pray tell, how long have you hated your family?" She knew she was pushing him into a corner. There wasn't much time. The King would soon send a raven to Winterfell, announcing a royal visit. However, Jon Arryn had yet to perish, so it was entirely possible that the king would not visit. Then again, he may just visit for kicks.

"I don't—"

"Don't lie. I'll know." She reminded with a smug smile. His jaw dropped, and he glanced around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation. His heartbeat sped up. Searching his mind for a plausible excuse to leave, he began to sip his mug every few moments. It was a tell. He hated them and could not lie about it.

"Tyrion. I'm not asking to inform on you. I'm asking because I would like to be your friend. A real one."

"I have friends." He huffed as he folded his arms in defiance.

"Name them."

"You wouldn't know them."

"Try me."

"Jaime."

"He's your brother. He doesn't count."