THE STING OF REJECTION

Author's Note: This is a non-profit fanfiction based on A Song of Ice and Fire. It is part of a larger story world I plan to adapt into an original novel. All names, places, and affiliations may change in the future.

AGES

RUYAN-15

ROBB-13

JON -3

SANSA-10

ARYA-8

BRAN-7

RICKON-1

RUYAN

The towering stone walls of Winterfell seemed to close in around Princess Ruyan as she stood before Lord Eddard Stark and his heir, the weight of her father's expectations pressing down upon her shoulders like a physical burden. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, sending dancing shadows across the walls—shadows that seemed to mock her with their playful movements while her own spirit stood rigid and unyielding.

Three days. Three days of waiting, after she laid out the proposal to Ned and Robb Stark. Three days of watching the dull gray skies of the North, so different from the vibrant hues of YiTi, wondering if they were an omen of failure. And now, here she stood, facing the boy who held her future—and the future of her empire—in his untested hands.

Robb Stark stood before her, his Tully-blue eyes regarding her with a mixture of respect and wariness. Though only thirteen namedays old, his shoulders already carried the burden of his future lordship. She had studied him during her stay—observed his training in the yard where he swung his sword with the determination of someone much older, watched his interactions with his siblings where he practiced the authority he would one day wield in earnest. Still a boy in many ways, but being forged into a lord with each passing day. His auburn hair caught the firelight, setting it ablaze like autumn leaves, reminding her how very foreign he was to her.

"Princess Ruyan," Lord Eddard Stark began, his voice as cold and unyielding as the Wall itself, "my son has considered your proposal. And after much thought, he has reached a decision."

Her heart quickened its pace, but Ruyan maintained her serene mask, perfected through years of imperial court politics. "I am eager to hear it, Lord Stark," she replied, her voice melodious despite the tension coiling within her like a serpent ready to strike.

Robb stepped forward, meeting her gaze with a directness that would have been considered impertinent in YiTi. "Princess," he said, his Northern accent thick on his tongue, "I must decline your offer of marriage. I cannot in good conscience agree to an alliance that would send a daughter of House Stark to a foreign land, nor one that would bind our house to the ambitions of a distant empire."

Each word landed like a slap—measured, polite, and utterly final to her carefully constructed plans. Her smile remained fixed in place, a porcelain mask hiding the storm of emotions beneath—fury, disbelief, and most shamefully, a stinging sense of personal failure that she instantly rejected.

Stubborn, isolationist fool, she thought, even as she maintained her composed exterior. So proud of your frozen wasteland that you cannot see beyond your own walls.

"May I ask your reasons, Lord Robb?" she inquired, her tone still honey-sweet, though her eyes had cooled to obsidian.

His expression remained frustratingly steadfast. "I fear foreign influence, Princess. The North has always stood apart, and I will not risk losing what makes us who we are. Nor will I use a child—my own flesh and blood—as a pawn in a game of power."

A pawn? Is that what he thinks of imperial princesses? Indignation flared within her, hot and bright. She was Princess Ruyan of YiTi, daughter of Emperor Tianlong, not some insignificant piece to be moved across a board. She was an architect of destiny, a bridge between two worlds, a harbinger of a future where magic and knowledge would reshape reality itself. And this... this boy dared to reject her offer? To treat her vision—her father's vision—as some petty scheme for power?

She wanted to laugh in his face, to tell him that he understood nothing of true power or true ambition. She wanted to remind him that while his ancestors were huddling in crude huts, her people were building cities that would make Winterfell look like a child's sand castle. But she swallowed these impulses, burying them beneath layers of imperial poise.

"I see," she said, her voice cool and controlled. "I will have to remind you of what entails with the offer, the advance knowledge and methods in agriculture, mining, engineering, irrigation, smithing, even military strategy. A dowry that would fill your coffers for generations. Would you not still change your mind?"

She already knew the answer before he spoke it. She could see it in the stubborn set of his jaw, in the unyielding blue of his eyes. These Northerners, so proud of their ability to survive in their harsh climate that they mistook mere survival for thriving. They were like summer flowers that managed to bloom in shade and called it a victory, never knowing the glory of growing under the full sun.

"It is not a matter of wealth or knowledge, Princess," Robb replied, just as she expected. "It is a matter of principle. I will not trade the future of my house for any price."

Principle, she thought scornfully. What principle is there in choosing stagnation over growth? In choosing isolation over connection? In choosing the past over the future?

These Northerners and their precious traditions. They spoke of them as if they were treasures, when in reality they were chains, binding them to the mistakes and limitations of their ancestors. How many Northern children had died of diseases that their backward maesters believe were because of their outdated medical knowledge. How many had starved during winters that proper agricultural techniques could have mitigated? Yet they clung to their ways like drowning men to driftwood, too afraid to let go and learn to swim.

"I understand, Lord Robb," she said, inclining her head in a gesture of respect she no longer felt. "I thank you for your honesty."

As she turned to leave, her mind was already racing, calculating, plotting. This was not defeat—it was merely a complication. Her father had not raised her to surrender at the first obstacle. If the front gate was barred, one simply found another entrance. If there was no entrance, one made one.

The cold air of the courtyard hit her like a slap when she emerged, sharp and bracing. Above, the sky was a blank canvas of gray, the sun hidden behind a veil of clouds—just as the North itself was hidden behind a veil of stubborn tradition and willful ignorance. Ruyan paused, her gaze drifting over the ancient stones of Winterfell, worn smooth by thousands of years of wind and snow.

They thought themselves eternal, these Starks. They had survived for eight thousand years and believed it made them invincible. They did not understand that survival was the lowest bar, the minimum standard. The cockroach survived, the rat survived—but neither ruled. Neither transformed. Neither created legacies that spanned continents and shaped civilizations. Didn't the north defeat the Targaryens and their allies because of the alliances they made, and that Lord Stark himself married a southerner binding their family to the Vale and the Riverlands?

They call themselves wolves, she thought with grim amusement, but they behave like sheep, huddling together against the cold, never venturing beyond their familiar pastures.

A cold wind whipped her hair across her face, and Ruyan welcomed the sting. It cleared her mind, sharpened her focus. This was not defeat, she told herself once more. It was a setback, and setbacks were merely opportunities in disguise. The Starks might reject her offer now, but they would come to see its value—one way or another.

Her father had taught her that those who could not be led by wisdom must sometimes be dragged by necessity. And winter was coming, as these Northerners were so fond of saying. When it arrived, they would learn the difference between surviving and thriving, between enduring and flourishing.

And she would be there to show them.