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You had not prepared for Robb.
You had not prepared for his easy laugh that could light up the dour halls of Winterfell. You had not prepared for the kindness in his eyes when he looked at you, not as an object of beauty or a political prize, but as a person. You had not prepared for the fierce, passionate lover who had held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world, who had murmured your name like a prayer against your skin as he found his release.
A knot of fear tightens in your stomach, cold and sharp. It is a terrifying feeling, this warmth blooming in your chest. This dizzying, breathtaking affection that grows stronger with every beat of your heart. You were supposed to be a dutiful wife, a political asset. You were not supposed to fall in love with the handsome, skilled, and shockingly gentle northern wolf who was now your husband.
Love. The word is a prayer and a curse. It is everything you were never supposed to feel, and everything you now cannot imagine living without.
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