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Drop some Power Stones.

Location: Lord Eddard Stark's Solar, Winterfell

The fire crackled quietly in the hearth, its warmth doing little to ease the tension in the room. Eddard Stark, King Robert Baratheon, and Robb Stark stood around a heavy wooden table, papers and goblets long forgotten.

"You think on it, Ned," Robert said, his tone gruff but not without feeling. "This could bring peace to the realm. Your daughter wed to my son—Stark and Baratheon, united once again."

"The answer is still no, Your Grace," Ned replied evenly, his voice calm but firm.

Robert's face darkened. "Damn it, Ned. Why are you so bloody stubborn? This is a golden chance to secure the realm. Don't you see what it could mean?"

Robb, silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was measured but resolute. "With all respect, Your Grace… your proposal isn't viable for the North."

Robert turned his glare toward the young heir. "And what would you know, boy? This is an alliance with the Crown, a chance for your House to be bound to the royal line."

Robb met his gaze, unflinching. "We gain nothing from this alliance but southern scrutiny and vulnerability. The North loses more than it gains. And we are not desperate."

The King slammed his cup down. "You're speaking out of turn. Out of respect for your father, I've let you stay, but don't test my patience. Let your father speak."

Robb's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Ned raised a hand to keep the peace.

"Robert," Ned said, his voice laced with frustration now, "he is my heir, and he speaks the truth. The North bled in your war, and we asked for nothing in return. But after all we gave, my son was put in trail in your court—for defending his kin. For defending a girl of the North from your son's cruelty."

Robert's face twisted. "He's a boy! Joffrey will grow. He will change. That's why I'm proposing an alliance—to bind our houses, to give us reason to avoid bloodshed."

"But that change cannot come at the expense of the North's dignity," Robb said, stepping forward now. "You offer us your son and call it peace, but peace does not come from forced submission. It comes from mutual respect—and sacrifice."

Robert exhaled deeply, exasperated. "Then what would you have me do? The lords grumble. The realm is fracturing. I try to make it whole, and all I get is resistance!"

"There are other ways, Your Grace," Robb said, his tone sharper now, thoughtful and more calculated. "You have a daughter—Princess Myrcella—still unwed. My brothers are unwed as well. Including the one in question."

Robert narrowed his eyes. "You mean Cregan? He has other companions. Other brothers doesn't have status and reputation to marry a Princess yet."

"They're paramours," Robb said bluntly. "From what I know Cregan and Oberyn Martell had deal for such things. The Dornish accept it. He's still free to marry. And with that match, you don't just get the North—you gain the goodwill of Dorne. Three powerful factions united by one marriage."

Robert scoffed. "Cersei would never allow Myrcella to marry him."

Robb didn't flinch. "Then why is it the North that must always bend? Why should we offer up Sansa for humiliation, when there is a better path to unity—one that doesn't cost us our daughters' happiness or dignity?"

Robert fell silent for a long moment, his gaze bouncing between father and son. Frustration was etched across his face. "So... you won't give Sansa to Joffrey?"

Ned shook his head. "Sansa rejected the match herself. She will not be forced."

The King stared at them, heavy silence hanging between them.

Then, slowly, he stood.

"Very well," Robert barked, voice edged with royal authority. "Here is my royal decree: Cregan Stark will marry Myrcella Baratheon. Sansa will marry Joffrey when she agrees, and not before. And you, Ned, will ride south with me and accept the post as Hand of the King."

Ned's eyes widened. "Robert, don't—"

"That is your king's order, Lord Stark," Robert said sharply, already moving toward the door.

The heavy doors slammed shut behind him.

Ned sat down slowly, rubbing his temple in frustration. Robb remained standing, fists clenched, fury in his heart but cold logic in his mind. The North had just been backed into a corner again But atleast they will gain a Princess from this atleast.

---

Winterfell – Lord's Chambers

The fire in the hearth was dying when Eddard Stark finally returned to his solar. Catelyn was waiting, her expression tense, hands folded in her lap. She stood as he entered, reading the lines of fatigue and frustration on his face.

"So?" she asked softly.

Ned sat heavily in the chair across from her, rubbing his temples. "He issued a royal decree. Cregan will marry Myrcella. And Sansa... is to be promised to Joffrey, if she agrees."

Catelyn's eyes widened slightly, then she stepped forward. "That's not so bad, Ned. It may not be what we wanted, but it's a royal match. She would be queen. A Stark as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. That would secure the North's future."

Ned looked up, eyes hard. "No. I will not force Sansa into this. Not after what happened in King's Landing. And I will not trade my daughter's happiness for a crown soaked in southern poison."

Catelyn hesitated. "But... think of the realm, the stability. She may come to love him—"

"Have you seen them together?" Ned cut her off, voice sharp but low. "She's polite, yes—but she sees through him. And I trust her judgment. If she says no, then it's no. That's the end of it."

Catelyn, after a long silence, "She's more like Arya than I ever thought."

"Aye," Ned muttered, gazing into the fire. "The South won't know what to do with a northern rose that blooms with thorns."

---

Elsewhere in Winterfell – The Courtyard

Prince Joffrey Baratheon, resplendent in crimson and gold, strutted through the courtyard like a peacock. Servants and courtiers kept their distance, and he liked it that way. Behind him trailed two squires and Ser Meryn Trant, always present.

Sansa was walking near the training yard with Arya, who rolled her eyes as Joffrey approached.

"Lady Sansa," Joffrey called out, smoothing his tone, trying to appear gallant. "Might I walk with you?"

Arya scowled and muttered something under her breath before walking off. Sansa turned, expression polite but neutral.

"Your Grace," she said with a curtsy. "Of course."

Joffrey smiled, pleased. "I wanted to apologize again for... the past. I was foolish. Young. But I've changed. My father says I must make a better impression—and I intend to."

Sansa offered a small, unreadable smile. "That's kind of you to say."

"I brought you something," he said, pulling out a small golden hairpin shaped like a lion. "A token from King's Landing. I hope it pleases you."

"It's... very beautiful," Sansa said, though her voice lacked warmth. She accepted it out of courtesy. "Thank you."

Joffrey preened, clearly mistaking her tolerance for approval.

---

The Great Hall – That Night

The high table was full—King Robert, Ned, Robb, Catelyn, Joffrey, Sansa, and other royal guests. Dishes of roast boar, honeyed duck, and baked apples adorned the long table. The northern bannermen watched the royals with veiled interest.

Wine flowed freely, and conversation hummed until Robert raised his goblet, looking directly at Sansa.

"So, Lady Sansa," he said loudly, voice slurred only slightly from drink, "you've grown into quite the beauty. I daresay you'd make a fine queen. Think of it—your children with my son, ruling the realm, uniting North and South. It's a good match. Powerful."

All eyes turned to Sansa. She smiled with the grace her mother taught her but answered with the fire her brothers had forged.

"Your Grace," she said sweetly, "when I was little, I grew along with my brothers and have a strong bond with each other. They were warriors of north and it made quite a impression on me and I used to say I'd marry the one who could defeat my brother Cregan in a duel. He was the strongest of them all, you see."

There were chuckles around the room. Robert raised an eyebrow, amused.

"But since then," she continued, voice gaining strength, "Cregan, Robb, and Jon have trained me with the blade. And I can wield one well now. I no longer wish to marry a prince... unless he is a warrior. A true one."

Silence fell.

Joffrey stiffened, red blotches forming on his cheeks. His mouth opened, likely to spit something cruel—but Robert raised a hand sharply before he could speak.

"Silence, boy."

Joffrey grit his teeth, swallowing his pride.

Robert chuckled after a long moment, raising his goblet again. "Stark girls. Gods, they're made of iron up here. Very well, lass. Your answer is noted. But think on it, eh?"

Sansa dipped her head respectfully. "Of course, Your Grace."

Across the table, Robb grinned in pride, but Ned placed a firm hand on his arm under the table—stopping him from speaking. Pride had to be tempered with caution, especially with southern tempers.

Later that night, Robert would complain loudly in his chambers about "stubborn Starks" and "warrior maidens," but a part of him—deep down—respected her defiance.

After all, she reminded him of Lyanna.

---

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