Cregan's POV
Okay, let's set the scene. Snowflakes were coming down in fat, lazy clumps, the kind that make you wonder if winter's decided to stay forever. I was layered up in wool from head to toe, and if I'm being honest, I was sweating like a pig underneath it all. Seriously, who thought this was a good idea? Winterfell, in case you didn't know, is cold—like, cold enough to freeze your face off just by stepping outside. Not that I'm complaining… okay, maybe I am. But hey, it's my home, so there's that.
Anyway, there I was, about to slip off to the training yard—my favorite place to escape the endless duties of being the "Young Lord" (don't even get me started on that nonsense)—when Maester Luwin burst through the door like the world was about to end. "The Prince of Dorne is here!" he practically yelled, his voice squeaky with excitement. And if you know anything about Maester Luwin, it's that nothing gets him worked up unless it's the end of the world or a particularly good scroll.
Now, don't get me wrong, I love company as much as the next eleven-year-old lord, which is to say, not at all. But since it's the Stark way to act like you actually enjoy hosting random royals, I figured I'd suck it up and at least pretend I wasn't thinking about how much better I'd look in my training leathers than in all these itchy wool layers.
And, of course, just to make my life a thousand times harder, my mother—Ashara Dayne-Stark, the perfect example of elegance in all things—decided it was the perfect time for a lesson in "how to be gracious" (as if I didn't already know). She swept into the Great Hall, practically glowing in the dim light, and I followed her, trailing like a lost pup, in my ridiculously uncomfortable woolen tunic.
"Smile, Cregan," she whispered, her violet eyes twinkling like she was talking to a toddler. "And for the love of the Old Gods, don't scowl."
"I'm not scowling," I muttered under my breath. Okay, maybe I was scowling. A little. It's not like I'm trying to look like I'm about to bite someone's head off. It's just how my face works.
As if on cue, the doors swung open, and there he was. The Prince of Dorne himself, Oberyn Martell. I mean, the guy had presence. It was like the entire room shifted to make room for him, and don't even get me started on those Dornish robes—crimson and gold, rich and wild like a sunset over a desert. The guy practically screamed "Look at me, but don't mess with me."
"Welcome to Winterfell, Prince Oberyn," my mother said, dipping into a curtsy so flawless it could have been practiced for hours. Seriously, how does she always look like a goddess, even in the middle of a snowstorm?
Oberyn smiled, sharp and dangerous, as if he was savoring the moment. "Lady Ashara," he said, his voice smoother than a glass of Dornish wine, "and the young Lord Cregan."
The "young lord" thing? Ugh. Whatever. Just because I'm eleven doesn't mean I can't run a castle. But I held it together and gave him a serious nod, trying to look all lordly. "Prince Oberyn. We're honored by your presence."
I'm pretty sure I nailed it. Probably.
Then, in the most dramatic move I've seen in years, my betrothed—yes, betrothed, no pressure—stepped forward. Rhaenys Targaryen. She was thirteen, which meant she was still technically younger than me, but I swear she was already carrying herself like someone who was destined to conquer the world. Her silver hair shone in the dim light, and her violet eyes—just like my mom's—could probably look straight through your soul and into your deepest, darkest secrets. She smiled like the sun was shining only for Oberyn as she bounced forward.
"Uncle Oberyn!" she exclaimed, her voice full of warmth. And way more enthusiasm than she ever greets me with. (Okay, maybe I was keeping score. What of it?)
Oberyn grinned, sweeping her into a hug like she was the only person in the room, not caring about the winter chill at all. "Rhaenys, you've grown into a true Dornish rose," he said, and I had to admit, it was a pretty sweet thing to say.
"I'm a dragon, Uncle," she corrected him, grinning. "But thanks."
You know what? That was cute. If I'm being honest, I might've felt a little tug at my chest. It's not jealousy, though, no way. Not when I was practically getting whiplash from the amount of sass that Rhaenys could throw around.
Next came Aegon, her little brother, who was looking just about as out of place in Winterfell as a flamingo in a snowstorm. He gave a shy smile and a nervous bow, and I swear he was about to trip over his own feet. Classic Aegon.
And then it was my turn. To meet the Red Viper of Dorne. Awesome. The man who was known for making people wish they had never crossed him, and for being charming while doing it.
He gave me one of those long, analyzing looks—like he was trying to figure out if I was going to burst into tears or start throwing knives at him. "So," he said finally, drawing out the word, "you're the Stark pup my niece is promised to."
Yup, that's me. The Stark pup. I tried not to choke on my own sarcasm. "That's right." I put on my most confident face. "Lord Cregan Stark. And don't worry, I won't bite."
He grinned. A slow, dangerous grin. "Good," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Because Rhaenys is half Targaryen and half Dornish. That means twice the fire."
I crossed my arms and leaned in like I was about to deliver a serious punchline. "Good thing I'm a Stark, then. We don't burn easily."
For a second, it felt like the room was holding its breath, waiting for Oberyn to drop the hammer on me. Then, he laughed. Not just a chuckle, but a full, belly-shaking laugh that echoed off the stone walls, and I had to admit, it felt pretty damn good.
"I like this one," Oberyn said, slapping me on the back with enough force to make me stumble. "You'll do just fine, Cregan Stark."
From there, the day was a blur of feasting, laughter, and stories. Oberyn's tales of Dorne were like nothing I'd ever heard before. The man could make the most ridiculous stories sound like they were straight out of a legend. And my mother, Ashara, kept shooting him these looks—like they shared some secret only the two of them knew about. I couldn't quite place it, but something about it seemed… not right. Not that I was going to ask. Who needed to know all that?
As for me, well, I survived the day—barely. I managed not to trip over my own feet in front of everyone, which felt like a victory.
But when I caught Oberyn looking at Rhaenys—like she was the sun and he was just a dot in its orbit—I realized something. This wasn't just another visit from some distant royal. This was Oberyn Martell. And wherever he went, he brought a little bit of Dorne with him.
And that... that was going to make things interesting.
—
You ever have one of those days where everything just seems too big for you? Like, you wake up, stretch, and realize that you're not even the size of the responsibility that's about to crash down on you? Yeah. That was me this morning.
First off, I'm Cregan Stark. You probably know me as the kid who's supposed to be "The Demon Wolf" and totally badass, but here's the thing—I'm eleven. Eleven! That's like, what, one thousand in adult years? And I'm supposed to lead Winterfell, fight off invasions, and, oh yeah, not embarrass myself in front of important guests. Just another regular Tuesday in the North.
Now, most of my mornings are spent freezing my backside off, trying to outlast the cold and pretending like I know what I'm doing while adults look at me like I'm some kind of mini-giant. But today, today was different. Why? Because Prince Oberyn Martell, also known as the Red Viper, strutted into my life like a fiery sunset. He didn't just walk into Winterfell. No, no. He made an entrance. Like, the kind of entrance that makes you think, "Is he here to fight someone or steal my heart?"
He and his crew were a literal splash of color in the dull gray of the North. Their Dornish cloaks were this deep, warm red that made the rest of my family's wardrobes look like they were designed by a bunch of bored ravens. And Oberyn? The man had a swagger that could set fire to the entire Winterfell courtyard and still leave you wanting more.
"Ah, Lord Cregan," he said, flashing that dangerous grin. "The Demon Wolf. Quite the name for such a young pup."
I didn't say anything. I just gave him my best "I'm in charge here" nod, which, in hindsight, probably looked more like I was trying not to sneeze.
"You've got a name that's bound to make any grown man question his life choices," Oberyn continued. "Tell me, boy, did you truly wrestle a kraken, or was that just a story to impress the tavernmaids?"
I shot him a look that I hoped said I'm not impressed, but honestly, the man could probably charm the skins off a direwolf. "Something like that," I muttered. "The kraken had a bad day, though. Came across a Stark."
Uncle Arthur—yeah, that Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning—laughed so loud it echoed off the walls. I swear, this man could make even the grim halls of Winterfell feel like a tavern full of jokes and warmth.
"Not a bad comeback, Cregan," Arthur said. "He's got a bite to match his bark, doesn't he, Oberyn?"
"Ah, the wolf cub has teeth," Oberyn said, grinning at me. "Good. You'll need them."
Now, let me tell you something. If there's one thing I've learned in my eleven years, it's that every word from Oberyn Martell comes with an extra layer of meaning. The guy doesn't just talk. He thinks while he talks. That's what makes him dangerous.
Before I could come up with a witty comeback—don't worry, I would've nailed it too—Oberyn's eyes flicked to the two Valyrian steel swords I had hidden beneath my desk. You know, casual heirlooms from the Greyjoy Rebellion. Just another Tuesday.
"I hear you've got some very impressive swords, Lord Stark," he said, all smooth and lazy. "Nightfall and Red Rain, if I recall correctly?"
I sighed. "Yeah. Don't remind me. I'm still figuring out what to do with them. Besides, there's no point in holding onto them if I'm not going to use them. And I could definitely use something that won't look like a child's toy in battle."
"Oh, we wouldn't want that, now would we?" Oberyn chuckled, but it wasn't mean. It was that kind of laughter that lets you know someone's got your number. "You want them reforged, then? I'll help you find someone who knows what they're doing."
That caught my attention. "Really?"
"Of course," Oberyn said, flashing a grin that could melt glaciers. "You'll need a master craftsman. The best of the best. And luckily for you, I know just the man. Tobho Mott, from Qohor. If anyone can make those blades sing, it's him."
I leaned forward, trying not to look too eager. "You can arrange it?"
"Oh, I will," Oberyn said, and then, with a glint in his eyes that could only be described as devilish, he added, "But, if you're going to name a sword after me, I'll expect to be properly compensated. Perhaps... a feast? A song? A small tribute? You know, the usual."
"Sure, sure," I said, rolling my eyes. "Maybe I'll name one of them 'Oberyn's Too Big for His Boots.'"
Arthur Dayne let out a laugh that sounded like thunder, and even Uncle Ned cracked a smile (which, believe me, is a rare sight). But it was Oberyn who broke the tension, leaning back in his chair with the kind of lazy confidence you only get when you've seen and done things most people only dream of.
"I'll take it, boy. As long as it's well forged. And as for you," he turned to me with that mischievous glint, "you'll have your reforged swords in three months. And then... we'll see if the Demon Wolf lives up to his name."
The whole room cracked up at that, and for once, I didn't feel like the eleven-year-old kid stuck in the middle of adult legends. Sure, I was still the kid with the big responsibility, but in that moment? I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could handle it. After all, I'd just made a deal with the Red Viper himself. What could possibly go wrong?
I'll tell you what: Absolutely nothing. Because, seriously? No one in Winterfell has ever had to face a kraken quite like me.
—
General POV
In the heart of Winterfell's kitchens, where the warmth rivaled that of a dragon's lair—minus the fire-breathing and charred eyebrows—Ashara, Elia, Lyanna, and Ellaria were knee-deep in their latest experiment. And by "experiment," they meant, of course, maple syrup. Yes, the fearsome ladies of Dorne and the North, together in what could only be described as a syrup conquest that would make the gods themselves reconsider their life choices.
Ashara stood over a bubbling cauldron like she was casting an incantation, wooden spoon in hand as if it were an ancient weapon. "Ellaria," she called, her voice light but sure. "You've got to try this."
Ellaria, who had a longstanding appreciation for trying new things—though less so when those things involved cold water or mandatory cold-weather gear—took a tentative sip from the spoon. Her eyebrows shot up, and her face immediately lit up. "By the Seven... this is incredible! Who knew trees could taste this good? I always thought the North was just about snow, turnips, and... well, existential despair. This though? This is something else."
Elia, standing nearby with a knowing grin, gave her sister a playful nudge. "Cregan's the one who started this whole maple syrup phenomenon. Apparently, he's on a mission to prove the North is more than just cold and grumpy faces. Who knew the secret weapon was... trees?"
Lyanna, who was diligently scraping sap off her fingers, threw in her two cents. "It's been quite the adventure. First, you have to politely ask the tree for its sap. Then, you boil it down for hours. It's basically the tree version of milking a cow, except the cow's taller, far less cooperative, and lacks a distinct sense of humor."
Ellaria, eyeing the assortment of cauldrons, sticky jars, and what could only be described as the aftermath of a chaotic but charming operation, raised an eyebrow. "You've really turned this into a full-fledged operation. I thought Dorne was the one known for throwing extravagant feasts. This... this is impressive."
Ashara beamed, her smile infectious. "It's been a learning curve. The first batch... well, let's just say it was more toffee than syrup. It could've been used to make armor. Delicious, though. You could break a tooth on it, but we're working on that."
Elia, clearly enjoying herself, chuckled. "And then there was the time we boiled it down too much and ended up with... what did we call it, Lyanna?"
Lyanna, ever the straight-faced comic, shrugged as she wiped sap from her palm. "Liquid regret."
The room erupted in laughter, the warmth of it all spreading far beyond the kitchen.
Ellaria grinned, wiping a stray bit of syrup from her lip. "I'm definitely taking some of this back to Dorne. The Water Gardens will go wild over Northern syrup. It's going to be all the rage—'hot' and 'cold' coming together in perfect harmony."
Ashara raised an eyebrow, her gaze playful. "You think you can outdo us, do you? We've got plenty of syrup here to share. Winterfell's larders are so full right now, I'm pretty sure the rats are planning to open a bakery."
As they continued stirring, laughing, and swapping stories, the warmth of the room wasn't just from the hearth. It was from the camaraderie between them. These women, from vastly different worlds, had come together over something as simple as syrup, and it was moments like this—laughter, shared glances, hands sticky with sweet sap—that made it all worth it.
Lyanna glanced at Ellaria as she stirred, her fingers trailing over the side of the cauldron before meeting her gaze. The way the light from the fire flickered over Ellaria's face—those dusky eyes, always so intense, so captivating. Lyanna had no trouble catching the soft, knowing smile that passed between them. There was no mistaking the chemistry that was building between them.
Ellaria, catching Lyanna's gaze, smiled a little wider, the corners of her lips curling sensually. "You know," she said, the words as smooth as honey, "if this syrup's half as sweet as you, Dorne will have a serious problem."
Lyanna's smirk was mischievous, the same spark in her eyes that had made the Kings of Winter and Storm dare to challenge her. "Oh, I'm sure we'll work something out. Dorne's going to need a lot more than syrup if it wants to keep up with the North."
Ashara looked at them both, her grin widening as she picked up on the banter—a sharp edge to it, but lighthearted and teasing. "Careful, you two," she teased. "We might need to start charging you for this syrup. There's a lot of very important ingredients here—like the chemistry."
Elia raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the playful tension between Lyanna and Ellaria. "If it's anything like the syrup, I'm sure the cost will be well worth it."
And as the day wore on, with stories flowing as freely as the sap, the bonds of friendship—and perhaps something a little more—were cemented in Winterfell's kitchen, sticky floors and all. The syrup was sweet, yes, but it was the moments shared that would remain the most unforgettable, like the lingering taste of something forbidden, something deliciously dangerous.
—
The courtyard of Winterfell was one of those places where, on a rare sunny day, you could almost forget that the North was more famous for its cold than its warmth. Rhaenys Targaryen stood there, feeling like the hero of her own story. She was flanked by her two direwolves, Padfoot and Meraxes, who, for the record, looked like they belonged on the cover of a "Coolest Creatures of Westeros" magazine. If there was a title for "Most Likely to Conquer All of Westeros in Style," it was definitely hers.
Padfoot, the massive black direwolf who looked like a shadow come to life, stretched out next to her with a quiet dignity. His coat was so dark it practically absorbed the sunlight, and his grey eyes? Those were the kind of eyes that could make you reconsider your life choices after just one glance. And then there was Meraxes, the smaller but just as fierce wolf with ash-grey fur and amber eyes that were warm enough to make you feel like she could toast marshmallows—but only if you'd earned her trust first.
Rhaenys, arms folded and a grin that said I'm totally in control here, watched as her cousins, the Sand Snakes, approached. They were a walking storm of sass, charm, and swords, all rolled into one. If Rhaenys had to pick one word for them, it would've been epic. Obara, the oldest at fourteen, had a stride that could knock over a mountain. Nymeria, who was twelve and quiet like a shadow, carried an air of mystery about her, as if she was already planning five steps ahead of everyone else. And then there was Tyene, at eleven, her expression an interesting mix of 'I can't believe I'm here' and 'I might die, but it's going to be worth it.'
"Ladies, meet Padfoot." Rhaenys stepped aside as her direwolf gave a big, theatrical stretch. "He's the big guy who makes even the most dangerous beasts nervous."
Obara raised an eyebrow as she stepped forward, always up for a challenge. "What, like those bears?" she asked, pointing to a distant group of snowy shapes in the forest.
Padfoot, clearly aware of his reputation, gave a low growl. Not a threatening one—more of a "I'm just warming up" growl. As if on cue, he leaned down and sniffed Obara's outstretched hand before headbutting her. It was a gentle nudge, but a nudge nonetheless.
Obara froze. Her eyes narrowed, and then, without missing a beat, she smirked. "Well, aren't you just full of charm?" she quipped, petting him as though he was the most normal thing in the world. "I could get used to this."
Rhaenys let out a laugh. "Oh, trust me, you wouldn't want to. He'll knock you over if you're not paying attention."
"Good to know," Obara said, clearly undeterred. "I like a little challenge."
"And this," Rhaenys continued, turning to Meraxes, who was sitting primly like she was judging a peasant's plea, "is Meraxes. She's more of the quiet but deadly type."
Nymeria took a step forward, studying Meraxes with the precision of someone sizing up an opponent in a duel. "Formidable," she said after a moment, her voice smooth and thoughtful. "Not too many wolves can make that kind of impact." She wasn't wrong—Meraxes had this air of quiet danger about her that practically hummed in the air.
"Exactly," Rhaenys said, grinning. "Meraxes is all about precision. Padfoot? He'll take you down in one big bang, but Meraxes? She'll make sure you never see it coming."
Tyene, still hanging back a little, looked warily at the wolves. "They're not too fierce, are they?" she asked, her voice betraying more than a little apprehension, even though she was trying to sound cool. Her eyes flicked nervously between Rhaenys and the wolves.
Rhaenys crouched down to scratch Meraxes behind the ears, giving Tyene a reassuring wink. "Only if you steal their food or mess with their people. Otherwise, they're just like big, furry teddy bears. Padfoot sleeps like a rock. Meraxes? She snores louder than my father after a feast."
As if on cue, Padfoot nudged Nymeria's hand, his massive head just managing to get in the way of her serious contemplation. Nymeria paused for a moment, and then, to everyone's surprise, she smiled—a rare occurrence that made it feel like the sun had actually broken through the clouds.
"Looks like they approve of you," Rhaenys said, trying to suppress her grin. "And trust me, that's no small feat. They've got standards."
Obara crossed her arms and gave the wolves another calculating look. "They're more than just... wolves," she said, her voice turning thoughtful. "They're symbols, aren't they? Of strength, loyalty, and maybe a touch of chaos." She glanced at Rhaenys. "I like them."
Rhaenys's chest swelled with pride. "Yeah. They're family. And as much as they might look like furry monsters, they've got our backs. Nothing scares them more than someone trying to hurt their people."
"And if you're a stranger?" Tyene asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are they that particular?"
Rhaenys smirked, stepping back as Padfoot nudged her affectionately. "If you're a stranger? Trust me, you're about to get a whole new perspective on 'personal space.' But if you're family? You're golden."
Obara snorted, clearly impressed. "I think I could get used to this," she said, her tone almost admiring. "But it's not just the wolves. It's you, cousin. Seems like you've got a good handle on things up here."
"Maybe," Rhaenys replied, feeling that familiar spark of pride flare in her chest. "But if we're being honest, I think I've got the best wolves in Westeros. And no one's taking them away anytime soon."
As the Sand Snakes nodded and murmured their agreement, Rhaenys couldn't help but feel a little smug. After all, not every girl had two giant, slightly terrifying wolves who were willing to guard her against anything—be it rival families, unpredictable weather, or the occasional awkward family gathering.
And frankly? She was totally okay with that.
—
Cregan's POV
The training yard of Winterfell was definitely not where I thought I'd meet my doom, but there I was—frozen to the core, staring down the infamous Sand Snakes while the entire courtyard gawked. And when I say "staring down," I mean it literally, because Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene had that dangerous glint in their eyes. Not the "let's sit down and talk about our feelings" kind of glint. More like the "let's see if you can survive the next five minutes" kind.
Obara Sand stepped forward like she had all the time in the world, twirling her spear with a cocky little smirk. I swear, the girl was born with that weapon in her hands. I also swear I could already see the headline: "Local Northerner Meets Untimely End in Northern Training Yard. News at Eleven."
"I've heard the stories about you, Stark," she said, practically purring. "The good ones, the bad ones. Are they true? Or are you just another northern boy who talks a big game?"
Nice. Real nice. "Well," I said, cracking my knuckles, "the stories definitely don't involve me tripping over my own feet. But who knows? We'll find out if I'm a complete disaster or a legend."
That got a few chuckles from the crowd. But not from Obara. Oh no. Obara wasn't laughing. She was already moving like a blur, her spear aimed straight for my chest.
Let's just say, I wasn't exactly ready for her. I mean, who ever is when a Sand Snake comes at you with a spear that looks like it was forged specifically to ruin your life?
I blocked the first jab, but the second one grazed my shoulder, and that's when I realized—Obara was no joke. Every movement was precise, every strike a lesson in brutality. My two swords? Not enough. I needed about three more, maybe a magic shield, and possibly a personal army.
"Keeping up, are we?" Obara's voice rang out, full of mockery. "Or are you about to prove that northerners only know how to die bravely?"
"Yeah, well, we do that really well," I shot back, ducking under another strike. "But I'm not planning on being one of those."
I twisted one of my swords in her direction, deflecting the spear with a satisfying clang. The crowd cheered, which—okay, yeah, I might've been a little smug about it. But just when I thought I had a chance to breathe, Obara launched herself at me again, a deadly storm of pointy death. I swear, she moved faster than my brain could process. But hey, I'm a Stark. We don't back down from challenges, no matter how ridiculously overpowered they seem.
I fought back, parrying and slashing, and then, just when I thought I might actually land a solid hit, Obara sidestepped me, like she was waiting for me to make a mistake—which, let's be honest, I probably would.
The fight went on like that for what felt like hours, but in reality, it was only a few minutes. My muscles were screaming, my lungs felt like they were on fire, but then Obara finally stepped back, panting, looking at me like I'd either gained her grudging respect or just amused her enough to keep me around.
"You're better than I thought, Stark," she said, lowering her spear.
"Glad to know I'm not a total disappointment," I said, also panting, and trying not to collapse right there.
Before I could even catch my breath, Nymeria Sand stepped forward. Nymeria, the calm, calculating one, with those deadly daggers glinting in the sunlight. She didn't move like Obara—she moved like a shadow, as if the wind itself had decided to come alive and mess with me.
"Let's see if your luck holds out with me, Stark," she said, her voice almost... soothing. Which was terrifying, because I knew she was about to try and turn me into a human pincushion.
Great. Round two.
I wasn't sure how Nymeria was faster than Obara, but she was. She darted at me, those daggers flashing, cutting through the air like they were trying to catch me in the act of breathing. It was like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. Impossible.
I blocked and parried as best as I could, but honestly, it felt like I was just flailing in the wind, hoping to get a lucky strike. Nymeria was everywhere—flashing, dodging, darting around me like some kind of dangerous dancer, and me? I was just trying not to get stabbed.
"Not bad," Nymeria said after a minute, smiling. It was a smile that said, "You almost didn't die, congratulations."
"Almost doesn't count in this world," I said, barely keeping my balance.
But before I could even collapse in a puddle of relief, Tyene Sand stepped into the ring. Tyene. The youngest, but also the deadliest. And she was grinning like she had a secret that was about to ruin my life.
"You're a brave one," she said sweetly, twirling her two slender blades. "I'll go easy on you... maybe."
If by "easy," she meant "turn me into a shredded mess of sweat and regret," then yeah, that's exactly what she meant. Tyene was a whirlwind—twisting, slashing, feinting in every direction like she was toying with me. I could barely keep up, dodging and blocking, trying to stay on my feet without looking like I'd just been rolled over by a herd of wild bulls.
I was gasping for air, but I refused to let her see me stumble. A Stark doesn't give up. And besides, I wasn't about to let the entire courtyard have a laugh at my expense.
I countered a slash, barely blocking one of her blades, but then—BAM—she tagged me on the side, and I stumbled back. Okay, yeah. Maybe a little too close for comfort. But I wasn't going down. Not today.
"You're not bad," Tyene said, her voice a mixture of amusement and admiration. "Better than I thought. But still not good enough."
I was about two seconds from falling over when the crowd exploded into applause. I had survived. Barely.
I managed a bow, though it was more like a wobble. "An honor to spar with the Sand Snakes," I said, grinning through my exhaustion, trying to look like I wasn't this close to passing out.
Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene shared a quick glance and nodded in approval. "You're not bad," Obara said with a smirk. "For a northerner."
Hey, for a bunch of people who would probably stab me on principle, that was a huge compliment.
And as the crowd began to disperse, I felt a weird mix of pride and relief. I'd survived the Sand Snakes. Sure, my body felt like it was about to fall apart, but my reputation? Well, that was looking pretty good right now. And for a Stark, that's all that really mattered.
---
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