A MOTHER'S CONCERN

ROBB

Only now did the size of it all start to sink in—the ships, the people, the permanence. These vessels would carry Ruyan's household and hundreds of Yi Tish citizens who would permanently settle in the North. Six massive trading ships loaded with supplies and personnel, Ruyan's vessel with its distinctive crimson sails, and six smaller scout ships that would serve as the future western patrol fleet. The Emperor had prepared for this outcome long before the marriage was even secured—a testament to his unwavering confidence or determination to fulfil his vision regardless of obstacles.

A thousand people. One thousand Yi Tish citizens who would bring their language, customs, and skills to the North. Their arrival would change the population and the landscape, with new plants and animals transported to thrive in his homeland.

"There should be no slaves among those coming with us." Robb firmly stated this during their planning sessions.

"And there will be none among us," Ruyan had assured him with equal firmness. "These are craftspeople, scholars, merchants, and even some lesser nobles—third sons and daughters seeking opportunity they wouldn't find at home."

Though their loyalty would be primarily to Ruyan, they would become part of the North and integrate into its fabric over time. This prospect was both promising and unsettling.

At nearly sixteen, Robb was not the same boy who had been taken from White Harbor two years ago. His core principles remained intact, but his perspective had broadened in ways he could never have anticipated. His body had changed too—taller, stronger, and moving differently, his fighting style now incorporating Yi Tish techniques that had become second nature after countless hours of training.

Robb had to admit that the Emperor's foresight was remarkable. These people coming to the North had been learning the Common Tongue since he had met Ruyan in Winterfell. He would need to encourage his people—at least those in Winterfell who could read and write—to learn Yi Tish in return. Otherwise, they would find themselves at a disadvantage in their own home.

After nearly two years away, Robb felt a complex mixture of emotions about his homecoming. Excitement to see his family again warred with apprehension about the political ramifications of his marriage. His mother was southern, hence he had been expected to marry northern. His siblings would almost certainly be bound to northern matches to compensate for his foreign alliance. Sansa, who dreamed of princes and knights, would need to marry a northern heir. Even Bran, who wanted nothing more than to become a knight, would have little choice as a second son.

The thought rekindled his resentment toward the Emperor, whose ambitions had effectively constrained his siblings' futures. But Ruyan's cold assessment during one of their arguments still rang true.

"That is the illusion of things," she had told him, her voice detached and matter-of-fact. "They don't have a choice. Even if you didn't marry me, Sansa would be expected to marry a northern heir. She is the eldest Stark daughter; her duty is to the North."

Gods, he had hated her in that moment—that imperial detachment as she spoke barbed truths. Yet he couldn't help but smile wryly when he imagined his sisters' reactions to Ruyan. Sansa would certainly be enchanted by a real princess, while Arya would likely be impressed despite herself when she discovered Ruyan's martial training.His siblings knew nothing of his true circumstances, believing instead the careful fiction his parents had constructed about a diplomatic mission. 

The Empress's garden was unlike anything in Winterfell—a masterpiece of careful cultivation where every element had been arranged with exquisite intention. Water trickled musically over smooth stones, creating a constant gentle melody beneath the calls of exotic birds. Flowering trees cast dappled shadows across the winding stone paths, their petals occasionally drifting down to float on the surface of ornamental ponds. The carefully orchestrated tranquility stood in stark contrast to the wild, untamed beauty of the North's godswood.

Robb followed the garden's winding path, led by a silent attendant through a series of increasingly private courtyards. Each step deeper into the Empress's domain heightened his awareness of the privilege and risk this audience represented. He had only seen the Empress at formal functions, where she had been as remote and untouchable—always composed, always watching, always perfect in her imperial dignity.

When he was finally ushered into her presence, she sat beneath a flowering tree beside a stone table where tea had been arranged. Master Wei took his position several paces back—close enough to translate if needed, yet far enough to provide the illusion of privacy. Robb performed the formal bow he had practiced countless times, his back straight, his movements precise. When he straightened, he found her studying him with the same penetrating gaze Ruyan sometimes employed, though the Empress's eyes held something her daughter's usually lacked—warmth.

"No need to be formal," she said, her voice softer than he had expected from such a formidable woman. She gestured to the cushion across from her. "We are in private, and you are, after all, my son-in-law."

Robb settled onto the cushion with the careful grace his Yi Tish tutors had drilled into him, conscious of every movement. Despite her words about informality, he knew that in Yi Ti, even private moments among royalty were governed by invisible but rigid protocols. One wrong gesture could undermine everything.

The Empress poured tea with her own hands, an honor whose significance wasn't lost on him. The liquid caught the light as it streamed into the delicate cup, amber and fragrant. Her sleeve—embroidered with imperial phoenixes in gold thread—brushed the tabletop as she extended the cup toward him.

"You must be surprised I speak you language. I learned it so I could help my daughter." She paused then continued. " You excited to be finally reuniting with your family," she observed, her tone conversational yet weighted with unspoken meaning.

"I am," he replied, accepting the cup with both hands. "Though I leave with more than I brought."

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she observed him over the rim of her own cup. Those eyes—so like Ruyan's in shape and color, but containing emotions her daughter rarely displayed. When she set the cup down, the delicate clink of porcelain seemed to signal a shift in the conversation's tenor.

She studied him. "Your marriage was forced.." Her words cut straight through ceremony, straight to the marrow. "And I know what was done to you — to your family. I do not expect you to forget it. But I ask this: do not take it out on my daughter. She did not choose it either. And yet here we are."

Robb held her gaze. "I would never blame her."

"No. But you might neglect her." Her words were not accusation, but prophecy. "You are returning to power, to blood ties and familiar earth. But she will have no one. No old friends. No kin. Her accent will betray her, her customs will mark her. Your bannermen will not see her as yours, not truly. Your mother already despises her."

The words left no room for doubt. No courtly veil. Just truth, sharp and bare.

"She will have no court, no siblings, no throne," the Empress said. "Not even me. That is the truth of this alliance."

"That aside, she is a princess," the Empress continued, "and that already separates her from the rest of people." Her hands tightened around her teacup. "She will only have you, Robb Stark."

The use of his name—not his title, not "Lord Stark," not "son-in-law"—stripped away the last pretense that this was merely a political conversation. Robb felt the weight of what she was truly asking: not just protection for her daughter's physical safety, but for her happiness, her sense of belonging, her very spirit.

"I ask this not as an Empress but as a mother," she added, her voice barely above a whisper.

The garden seemed to hold its breath. A distant bird called once, twice, then fell silent. Robb leaned forward slightly, his voice low but firm.

A breeze stirred the blossoms. Somewhere, a bell chimed.

Robb swallowed, heart heavy. He thought of Ruyan in her red silks, graceful as a carved figure, but always at a distance.

"She is my wife," he said. "And I am hers. That is not just words. I'll see her protected — not tolerated, not endured. Protected. Honored."

The Empress exhaled. "Starks are said to keep their vows."

"I give you my word," he promised, "she will be treated as family, no less."

Something flickered across the Empress's face—approval, perhaps, or relief. "Starks are known to honor their vows and oaths," she observed. "I would expect no less."

The tension in her shoulders eased fractionally. A sad half-smile curved her lips as she inclined her head in acknowledgment—not the formal imperial nod but something more personal, more genuine. She rose gracefully, signaling the audience had reached its conclusion.

Robb stood, bowing again as protocol demanded. He had nearly reached the garden's edge when her voice called after him, the words carrying clearly across the space between them.

"When the time comes that she remembers what she has long forgotten, don't abandon her.

He turned, startled by the cryptic statement. The Empress stood beneath the flowering tree, suddenly looking less imperial and more like a woman burdened with secrets.

"Your Majesty?"

"Her mind forgot what she has lost, but her soul doesn't." Her eyes held a shadow of old grief. "I cannot tell you more—to protect her."

Robb wanted to press further, to demand clarification of this veiled warning, but something in the Empress's expression stopped him. Whatever secret lay buried in Ruyan's past, it was not his to uncover—at least not from her mother's lips.

The Empress turned away, the elaborate panels of her robes swaying with her movements. The audience was over, and her final warning hung in the air like the lingering scent of the garden's blossoms.

As he followed the attendant back through the series of courtyards, Robb turned the Empress's words over in his mind. What could Ruyan have forgotten that would require his support to remember? What loss could be so significant that even her imperial mother spoke of it with such careful concern?

He thought of his wife's perfect composure, her measured words, her precise movements—all the hallmarks of imperial training. But he also recalled those rare, unguarded moments: the emptiness he sometimes glimpsed in her eyes when she gazed at the full moon, her hand occasionally reaching for something at her neck that wasn't there, the nightmares she refused to discuss. Small fractures in a façade so carefully constructed he had barely noticed them until now.

The realization chilled him more than any northern winter. Whatever lay buried in Ruyan's past, something told him it would eventually surface. And when it did, he would need to honor the promise he had just made—not just to protect her from external threats, but perhaps from something far more personal and devastating.