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Leon's boots crunched on the rotted leaves of the godswood.
He had looked everywhere in Karhold for his lady wife, including in the small sept he had built for her, yet, there she was; kneeling at the foot of a bleeding weirwood, shivering from the cold despite the heavy fur cloak that shielded her - an antithesis to the embroidered flowers in her house's color that he had taken away from her under that same tree. Her hands were clasped tightly together as she murmured prayers of a religion that belonged to a sun she would never see again.
His fist clenched to the pace of his heart.
When he claimed her, he never accounted for the possibility that he could make her miserable.
He had taken a princess born of gold and roses, a creature meant to bloom in the perpetual summer of Highgarden, and dragged her into the harsh gray of the North.
The babe in her womb made her fuller in the face, brighter around the eyes, her body dimpling beautifully with supple skin. Carrying his child agreed with her, whatever else she privately thought of the man who'd put it there. But she was never quite the woman she'd been the summer he met her, two years ago. That girl laughed easier. That girl hadn't needed a god at all, let alone someone else's.
He didn't know if that was grief, or only growing up. Some days he still could not tell the difference.
Leon remembered Highgarden mostly as heat.
Three weeks on the road had worn every man in Stark gray and Karstark black down to short tempers and shorter patience, and the Reach had greeted them with air so thick it sat on the chest like a dented armor plate.
If he had his way, he would have stayed in Winterfell, serving as his king's ward with anything instead of Princess Sherry's shield. But his father, Lord Karstark, Hand of the King of the North, had other plans for him. He was to aid in the new military treaty, negotiating clauses and threatening demands so he could be prepared to return to Karhold and manage the keep.
The western coastline was being ravaged by the Iron Islands, coordinating attacks on Bear Island as well as the Reach's Shield Islands. With no other choice, the Gardeners begged for the North's protection. They conceded, with the condition that the Reach provided in trade grain, salt and wine - enough to last winters to come. And thus, the negotiation was made, and the seal would be Princess Sherry's wedding to Prince Jullen Gardener, the heir to the Oakenseat.
Leon had known Sherry ever since she was a babe, when he had sworn her protection. She was a sharp child and a proper lady by northern standards, raised by a mother that had prepared her for that world.
Highgarden sprawled on the horizon. Fields of golden roses, olive trees and eternal gardens stretched around the castle, painting the landscape with colors he had never seen before in nature. Sherry had asked to continue the journey on horse, mesmerized by everything she could not touch or smell from her wooden carriage.
At the gates, guards with flower-detailed armor and Gardener-deep green capes awaited them, escorting the Northern delegation through the labyrinthic garden.
Through the thick greenery, the sound of splashing water and careless laughter had cut through the rhythmic thudding of horse hooves. One of the guardsmen approached Leon, elbowing him and nodding down a sparkling stream.
Four naked maidens were laughing in the shallows, dropping in and out of the current with the unhurried ease of women who had no idea - or didn't care - that half an armed column had just crested the rise behind them; their only guards being four elegant horses that grazed by the riverbend.
Modesty demanded that he looked away, but as he did, his gaze locked onto one girl in particular. He reined his horse to a slow walk. She was sun-kissed and gold, light catching hair so pale it went nearly white at the crown, water sheeting off her shoulders like she'd been poured from something. The girl wasn't facing their way, displaying an elegant spine that ended at perfect buttocks.
He started to believe she was a hallucination, rendered from his head overheated under his cotton garments and iron armor, or mayhap, even a distortion created by the sun.
The last gate of the gardens ended in a stone arch, framing a lush patio with trees, statues of perfect men and women, as well as gurgling fountains.
Jullen Gardener, the Prince of the Reach awaited them. His golden curls could be a crown on their own, matching perfectly to the golden and green flowers embroidered on his ensemble. He received their retinue with flawless, courtly grace, as expected from a southron, while his father and mother attended royal business.
Sherry was enthralled by it all, blushing furiously at any word strung into complicated poetry by the prince. He also seemed instantly taken by the princess, ignoring the nobles of Winterfell who had traveled for weeks, until his brow furrowed at something in the garden. A figure was sprinting carelessly across the hedges, barefoot, skirts gathered in one fist, completely flouting royal decorum.
The Prince sighed, calling out sharply to halt her, demanding she come over to properly greet their royal guests.
She slowed only when she realized she'd been seen, arranging herself into something more befitting a princess by the time she reached them. Leon felt a heat spell consume him whole.
The girl from the river held her chin high, her cheeks flushed pink from running, her blonde hair still damp and clinging to her neck in dark streaks. But it was her dress that made Leon's jaw tighten. The fine orange dornish silk of her gown was thoroughly soaked from her swim, clinging to her skin like a layer of oil.
The fabric dipped to the shape of her body, two thin lines converging like a river to the apex of her thighs. The sight was worse than her naked version, her breasts perfectly outlined beneath the translucent, weeping silk; a peerless display of highborn rebellion that drove him insane on the spot.
"This is my sister," Jullen announced. "Princess Ashley Gardener of the Reach."
Princess Ashley bowed her head politely. "A pleasure."
The Prince smirked boyishly. "She's been informed of everything and remembers none of it. Ash - Princess Sherry Stark of Winterfell, and her escort from the North, son of the hand of the king."
"You are as lovely as they say, Princess Sherry," she murmured, offering a polite smile, yet voice full of wryness.
Sherry shifted nervously on her feet. "And you are even more than what they say," she stammered, eyes wide as she stared at the Princess.
Princess Ashley laughed. "I can't wait to know my future sister. I bid my goodbyes for now. I'm sure you are exhausted from the journey. I'll see you at the feast," she said, stealing a look at Leon for the first time. "Or at the negotiation table."
She ran into the castle, the dress just as revealing from the other side.
"My sister is my grandma's favorite," Jullen chuckled. "She taught her everything she knew about when she was the Queen. I'll escort you to your quarters. We decided to serve the feast tomorrow, once you are well rested for our revelries, so don't hesitate to ask the maids for anything you might wish. I highly suggest the lamb and the olive bread - a staple in the kitchens."
Prince Jullen left them with a polite bow, and a lingering kiss pressed to the back of Sherry's hand, who visibly swooned to his chivalry.
The following morning, the heir — like their majesties — was occupied elsewhere with matters of state. To Sherry's surprise, an embossed letter found its way to her chambers - an invitation for breakfast with Princess Ashley in the gardens. The Winterfell Princess wore an accompanying dress of lavender silk, adorned with sun and moon motifs that exposed most of her pale skin to the sun in the way northern garments never did.
Princess Ashley awaited them under a stone pergola, completely covered in lush vines and flowers. She wore a light blue gown - a cut more revealing than the prior day's ensemble, but offering her the modesty propriety demanded - and her blonde hair was braided in an intricate up-do, roses made of gold gleaming like a crown. Her maidens entertained her around the table, hushed giggles that seized the moment Sherry's arrival was announced. With a flick of her wrist, her maidens left for the gardens.
Ashley stood from her chair to loop her arm around Sherry's, guiding her to her seat beside the head of the table. She sat perfectly straight, a vision of pristine hospitality, voice smooth and dangerous as she slipped calculated questions between offers of pomegranate wine and lemon cakes.
"The North must be dreadfully cold, Princess Sherry," she murmured, voice a melodic purr that countered her sharp eyes. "My brother tells me the winters there can last years. I do wonder how a delicate thing like you manages without the sun."
From his spot in front of a pillar, Leon watched Sherry offer a quiet response, but his mind was trapped in the cadence of their host. She was probing for weakness, testing the northern girl's mettle.
"You'll love the Reach, my dear," Ashley quipped, refilling Sherry's cup with no announcement. "We'll have a feast today. In the morn, all noblemen from the realm will be here for a tournament. I'll also take you riding. Have you ever falconed before?"
"Falconed?" Sherry questioned.
"Yes. We have falcons. Adorable pets," Ashley explained, plucking a ripe, heavy peach from a silver bowl. Leon watched as she brought it to her rosy lips, the sharp white of her teeth piercing the fuzzy skin. A drop of sweet, golden juice broke over her bottom lip, catching the morning light as it slid down the curve of her chin and the length of her slender fingers, curling to her wrists.
Her green eyes found his, shining curiously as she smirked over the bitten fruit. She took another bite, not looking away. Only then, with the back of a finger adorned with a golden ring, she wiped away the stray droplets.
"How about your friend? Would he partake in the jousting? Certainly, a northern knight would be entertaining," she mumbled.
Sherry laughed. "We don't do such things in the North-"
"Well, but you are in the Reach," Ashley said, glancing between the two. "It would be an honor to have Ser...?"
"We also don't have such titles," Sherry answered. "He's just Leon Karstark, ward of the North, son of the Hand."
"But are you a knight?" she inquired, directly at him.
Sherry remained silent, nibbling at a salty cracker covered in olives.
"Kind of, your highness," he replied, though his throat had gone dry.
"Well, Ser Karstark, I cordially invite you to join our knights tomorrow..."
"With all respect, your highness, I doubt I could be as delicate as them."
The Princess cocked her head. "Even I am tougher than they are," she chuckled. "Or mayhap, you are more interested in chasing maidens in the gardens. In this weather, you'll find a lot of them refreshing themselves in the water."
Then she resumed her conversation with Sherry, an inoffensive talk about the gardens and the latest gossip within the court.
But Leon knew, that ever since she sat at the head of that table, every tilt of her chin, every delicate brush of her fingers against her silk skirts, was directed at him. She was punishing him for watching her in the river, treating him like an invisible piece of the scenery while simultaneously driving a spike of heat straight through his chest.
In the evening, the Gardeners finally hosted a welcoming feast.
The Great Hall looked like an indoor garden, petals of golden roses spread all over the floor, lit by thousands of beeswax candles, making the white marble walls glow like warm ivory. Tables groaned beneath silver platters of roasted swan, racks of lamb crusted in mint, and endless flagons of golden arbor wine.
Being Princess Sherry's sworn shield, he stood guard directly behind her at the high table, to the left of Princess Ashley. Across from them, sat Lord Redwyne, a wealthy southron noble who spoke in flowery prose and glanced too much at her bare shoulders.
As Redwyne launched into yet another tedious poem about summer roses, Ashley shifted back in her seat. She let her arm drop casually over the carved armrest of her chair, her hand hanging out of sight of the table.
Slowly, she reached backward. Leon felt her fingers brush against the leather of his trousers, right at the side of his thigh.
Leon remained still, forcing his expression to remain the same, eyes fixed on the far wall. But slowly, his hand dropped from the pommel of his sword. He trapped her delicate hand against his leg, his grip tightening in challenge, a pressure that made her breath hitch audibly.
"Are you unwell, your highness?" Lord Redwyne asked, pausing his poetry as he noticed the deep flush on her cheeks.
"Not at all, my lord," she murmured, eyes dark as Leon's thumb pressed a slow, punishing rhythm into her palm. She didn't try to pull her hand away. "I am merely overwhelmed by the heat."
The morning sun baked the tourney grounds, turning the sprawling fields outside Highgarden's walls into an ocean of fluttering silk banners, gilded pavilions, and cheering nobility.
From the shadows of the royal box, Leon watched the lists without doing much to conceal his disgust. The knights of the Reach treated war like a mummer's farce. They rode in spectacular plate armor etched with vines and flowers, wasting time on elaborate salutes and bowing to the gallery before ever lowering a lance.
A pathetic imitation of what the real thing was.
Beside him, Princess Sherry gripped the velvet-draped railing, her knuckles turning white.
"They are mocking us," she whispered, her voice laced with rare anger. Leon glanced down. The northern princess was listening to the hushed laughter of the Hightower and Redwyne ladies in the row behind them. "They say we are just meat and fur. That northmen might know how to butcher in the snow, but have no concept of true skill or chivalry."
Sherry looked up at him, her blue Stark eyes pleading. "Leon, please. I know you hate this southron game, but you are the son of the Hand. Show them we are not just wild dogs..."
Leon's jaw tightened. He had no desire to play at war, but as his gaze swept the pavilion, it locked onto Princess Ashley. She sat beside her mother, draped in a gown of spun gold, looking utterly bored by the colorful display in the dirt below.
"I guess we could give them a show," Leon rumbled, lighting up a smile on Sherry's face.
When the herald announced the entry of a Northern ward, a wave of disdainful murmurs washed over the gallery. Leon did not ride out in polished plate or a crested helm. He sat atop his massive black destrier wearing only battered iron mail and boiled leather, carrying an ash lance that looked like the decorative sporting weapons the Reach knights favored.
His first opponent was Ser Luis, the formidable sworn shield of Princess Ashley. Luis rode a swift dapple-gray, his lance angled with precision.
When the horn blew, Ser Luis spurred forward in a sweeping gallop. Leon simply drove his heels in once, riding in a straight line. He didn't aim for the shield. As Luis's lance glanced harmlessly off Leon's iron shoulder guard, Leon dropped his own heavy ash at the last possible second, catching the knight squarely in the center of his breastplate.
The impact sounded like a thunderclap. Ser Luis was lifted clean out of his saddle, flying backward to slam violently into the dirt. He did not get back up.
A shocked, horrified hush fell over the crowd. This was not the graceful unhorsing they were used to. It was brutal. It was violent.
In the royal box, the ladies stared at their gallant knight in horror - all save for the Princess herself, who seemed unimpressed.
The hush turned into an outraged clamor when Prince Jullen himself called for his armor, a joyous and drunk laugh booming from his chest. The golden heir of the Reach rode out on a pure white charger, his armor gleaming like a second sun. He was visibly amused that a northern barbarian had so thoroughly humiliated his sister's protector.
Leon could not help but notice Sherry smile with delight, watching her betrothed make a show of donning his armor, and promising her a rose laurel with a blown kiss.
The prince offered a sweeping salute to the crowd.
Leon offered nothing. He simply lowered his visor.
The horn blared. The ground shook as the two heavy horses closed the distance. Prince Jullen aimed his lance perfectly at Leon's chest, but Leon didn't even try to block it. He leaned into the strike, letting the prince's lance shatter against his thick iron mail. In the exact same heartbeat, Leon swung his heavy shield outward, smashing it directly into the neck of Jullen's horse.
The white charger reared in panic. Before Jullen could correct his seat, Leon's heavy ash lance slammed into the prince's shoulder. The golden armor crumpled, and the prince was thrown sideways, crashing into the wooden tilt barrier with a sickening crunch of splintering wood and metal.
The gallery screamed. The King stood up in alarm. The squires scrambled into the dirt to drag the groaning prince from the lists.
Leon brought his horse to a halt in the center of the arena. He didn't parade. He didn't raise his arm in victory. The people of the Reach stared at him in absolute terror, realizing that while they had been playing a game, the Northman had been waging a war.
Leon pushed his visor up, wiping a streak of sweat from his jaw with his leather gauntlet. He looked directly at the royal pavilion.
Ashley sat at the edge of her seat, her green eyes dark and burning as she stared down at him. In a sea of frightened sheep, she looked like a lioness completely mesmerized by the wolf that had just torn through the flock.
A squire scurried into the dirt, trembling as he offered up the victor's prize on a velvet cushion: a crown woven of pale white roses.
Leon didn't dismount. He simply lowered his lance, catching the wreath of flowers on the iron tip. He spurred his horse forward, riding at a slow walk until he stopped directly beneath the royal box.
The gallery held its collective breath. King Gardener's face was dark with fury over his son's humiliation, while the southron lords murmured in scandalized whispers. Who would the barbarian crown?
Leon raised the lance. With a flick of his wrist, the crown of white roses slid off the iron tip and dropped into Princess Sherry's lap.
"For Winterfell, my Princess," Leon rumbled, his voice carrying over the silent dirt arena. He had fulfilled his expected duty as her sworn shield. There was no political scandal to be found.
But as the northern princess beamed, blushing at the honor, Leon did not look at her.
His blue eyes shifted instantly to the right, locking onto Princess Ashley. He stared at her from beneath the rim of his battered iron helm, entirely stripped of any courtly pretense. He held her gaze for long seconds - an unspoken, violent promise that burned straight through the cool autumn air.
Ashley blushed. She didn't look away, tipping her chin up, a wicked, answering fire flashing in her green eyes before Leon finally turned his horse and rode out of the lists.
It was a game they played for weeks.
Every banquet, every council meeting, every sun-drenched afternoon walking Highgarden's endless labyrinths became a test of nerve.
They never spoke - not when the court was watching, not when southron lords clustered around like colorful birds, and certainly not when Sherry chattered excitedly about her upcoming wedding.
The northern Princess was already succumbing to the southern customs - she wore bright colors and dresses that made nobles wrinkle their noses in jealousy; and she had become great friends with her future sister-in-law.
They would spend afternoons riding - with the Golden Princess straddling a high-spirited white mare, her fine silk skirts hitched up scandalously past her knees to reveal pale calves pressed against a fine leather saddle - to different parts of the infinite garden. The princess, with a retinue of ladies-in-waiting and both their sworn shields, would stop to read under lemon trees, play tag in the hedge labyrinth, have luscious picnics. And there was also the falconing.
Sherry had been gifted an amenable and young hawk by her future husband, a prey bird she named Olive.
Falconry, Leon learned from Ser Luis, was supposed to be a gentle pastime in the south, a backdrop for courtly flirtation. But when the grand falconer brought out the birds, the kestrel that landed on the thick leather gauntlet Ashley wore was not the docile creature he'd expected, but a fierce gyrfalcon - a predatory bird that was not uncommon over the Belt.
The contrast was harrowing. She stood in a gown the color of spun marigolds, her skin glowing under the reachman sun, while this feathered killer sat contentedly on her arm.
She did not flinch when the bird snapped its beak near her face; instead, she leaned in close, whispering something to it. When she cast the falcon off, her arm snapped upward with powerful grace, watching the bird descend toward a flushing pheasant.
As the court cheered the kill, she turned her head. Her eyes swept over the crowd of clapping lords, until they found him under the shadows of willow trees. She merely raised her leather-gloved hand, slowly dragging her thumb along the edge of the stiff leather cuff. Look at the wild things I can tame, her eyes whispered. Look at what I can command.
Leon's jaw tightened, his fingers curling into his palms. The air in the Reach was entirely too hot, the perfume of the roses too thick, and as he watched her retrieve the bloodied falcon, he realized a terrifying truth: he felt the urge to pull the golden princess off her white horse, drag her away from this glittering court, and see how she fared in a world where the sun couldn't save her.
The opportunity to test that theory came during the king's midsummer banquet, a grand, decadent affair meant to formalize the courtship between Princess Sherry and the heir to Highgarden.
She wore a gown of deep emerald silk, the low neckline revealing the smooth, sun-warmed expanse of her collarbones. Her blonde hair had been woven into an intricate crown of braids, pinned with tiny, shimmering emeralds that caught the torchlight every time she shifted her head. She was surrounded by a swarm of young, courtly knights - handsome, soft-handed boys with oiled curls who took turns pouring her wine, reciting clumsy poetry, and begging for her favor.
The Princess seemed entirely bored, only offering the crowd a smile while she watched her brother and his betrothed dance among the nobles to the song of a luthier. She drank cup after cup of wine, glaring at all the pretentious lords whose existence personally offended her.
Eventually, when Sherry was clearly exhausted from dancing, Prince Jullen called his dear sister into the revelry. The siblings joined the floor, with the noble folk clapping and cheering as they showcased elegant skills, even filled to the brim with rich wine. They spun, twirled merrily. The prince lifted her in the air, securing her weight as he guided her to all corners of available space. They laughed and murmured into each other's ears, sharing secrets and casting glances towards Princess Sherry.
Ashley pulled him along to the raised dais, clasping Princess Sherry's hand in her own and laying it on her brother's palm. The three drunkenly spun, stumbling into each other with glee. Then, she pulled herself out, watching the couple return to the demanding crowd.
The Princess slipped away from the feast hall, murmuring something into Ser Luis's shoulder, who simply nodded with a smile, remaining in his post.
Leon followed suit, watching her walk winding corridors until she reached a smaller, inner garden. A canopy of blood-red leaves domed away the night, filtering moonlight and converging into a cluster of three, ancient weirwood trees, carved faces in each pale trunk. A godswood.
"Never taken you as an admirer of the Old Gods," he murmured, acknowledging his presence.
"It's the only place you'll ever truly be alone here," she explained, back still turned to him. Her hair was almost white under the moon. "They say the Old Gods have no power this far south."
"They don't need power, Princess," he replied, approaching her carefully, so as not to trip on the roots. "They only need memory."
Barefoot, she circled the trees, tracing the crimson sap weeping from one of the carved eyes, until she stood facing him. "My father's courtiers hate this place. They say the trees are watching them. Judging them, even when their belief is cast somewhere else," she whispered, looking up at him. "What do they see when they look at you, Ser Leon?"
"They see a man a long way from home," he said, stepping closer. "And they see a southern princess wandering alone in the dark with a barbarian."
"I am not afraid of the dark," she stammered softly.
"You should be."
Leon closed the distance in two long strides, pinning her back against the pale bark of a weirwood by crowding her backward. "In the South, you treat your gods like decorations," he murmured, leaning down until his lips were inches from hers. "Do you know how we pray to the trees in the North, your highness? With blood. With iron. With honor. We give them our oaths, and if we break them, we feed the roots."
He reached up, thumb scraping the crimson sap weeping from the trunk behind her and brushing it across the pale and soft skin of her cheek. A blood-red mark of the North on the golden princess of the Reach - he felt his chest tighten at the sight.
"If you let me touch you here," he warned, cupping her jaw. "You southrons will see a scandal, but to the Old Gods - they don't recognize treaties or titles... To the Old Gods, if I claim you under these branches, you are mine. Forever."
Despite having her face in his hold, she tilted her chin in defiance. Her breath hitched as she gripped the collar of his linen shirt. "Let them watch," she whispered.
She pulled him down, crashing her lips against his. Leon let out a guttural groan, his control shattered. His hands caressed down the back of her thighs, lifting her up and caging her body against the white bark. Struggling with her dress, Princess Ashley wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, fingers tangling into his dark hair as he devoured her.
Leon bunched the emerald silk as he hoisted her higher, pressing her weight entirely down. She let out a sharp gasp into his mouth, heels digging into the small of his back.
"Ashley..." he growled against her lips, the name tearing from his chest like a curse.
He tasted the sweet wine she had consumed at the feast, breaking down all of the restraints he held up. The cool night wind rustled the red leaves above them, but the clearing was consumed by the heat of their desire.
His hand slid down from her waist, tearing through the layers of fine fabric until his calloused palm met her slick center. A shudder racked her entire frame, making her head hit the bark and stain her blonde hair with crimson sap.
She clung to him tighter, scratching his shoulders as he wrung out every possible moan and tremor from her "Show me what men from the North do to southrons like me..."
Leon hissed at the challenge, holding her with one arm while the other reached to fumble with his briefs. He swallowed every gasp of hers while he pressed the head of his length firmly against her heat, teasing the friction of skin on skin, forcing her to whimper against his lips while driving her to the edge of madness.
The weeks that followed were defined by stolen moments in the shadows. They found each other in the quiet alcoves of the stone corridors, behind the heavy tapestries of the grand hall, and many times under the bleeding canopy of the godswood.
On the night after the military treaty was completed, it was announced across the realm that the northern delegation would depart, leaving Princess Sherry to wed the future King of the Reach.
Ashley stood in his chamber when he returned for the fortnight, wrapped in a silky white sleeping gown that reminded him of her soaked dress. She didn't seek their newfound intimacy, but comfort for his impending absence.
Unlike every single time before, they danced slowly on the sheets, laying gentle touches on each other's skin.
"I wish I could go," she murmured.
Leon shook his head, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "You don't. I am not a southron lord, Ashley. I would take you North, to the gray stone and the howling wind. Here you have men who would write you poems. I couldn't do any of that. The rose gardens of your home would be dead to you."
"They were dead to me the moment I watched you unhorse my brother," she jested, her fingers dancing on his bare chest. "Take me. You did under your Gods."
"Your father would never allow me-"
"Then throw me over your saddle and carry me out of here. My father would do everything to deny a scandal."
A summer thunderstorm violently slammed against the windows, drowning the orchards.
The following morning, against his logic, he stormed the king's solar with no announcement.
King Gardener and Prince Jullen looked up in shock. Leon wore no formal court doublet, just his damp travel leathers.
"I come to ask the Princess's hand in marriage."
"You dare?" Prince Jullen slurred, drawing his sword half out of its scabbard. "You are a guest!"
"While you courted my charge, I took the Princess's honor. It belongs to the Old Gods now," Leon rumbled. "You can give her to me formally, wrap it in the same alliance parchment, and save your family's precious southron pride, or you can refuse, watch me ride out of these gates with her anyway, and explain to your lords why the King of the Reach let a northern barbarian ruin his golden princess right under his own roof."
Reluctantly, the King agreed, with the condition of an extended trade agreement for ironwood from House Karstark. Leon relented.
After their journey to Karhold, they vowed themselves to each other for life under the weirwood. Ashley was a vision in white and green, donning the Gardener cloak until it was time for him to take it off her and cover her with his own fur one.
Leon took a step forward, allowing the dry crunch of leaves to betray his presence. Ashley stopped her murmuring, turning her head to look at him.
The soft, golden-skinned girl who had once mocked him in the sunny gardens of the Reach was gone, replaced by a woman forged in iron and frost. He dropped to his knees beside her in the dirt, ignoring the chill seeping through his trousers.
He gently cupped her jaw, wiping away a stray flake of snow that clung to her eyebrow.
"The wind is cutting through the walls tonight," he murmured. "You shouldn't be out here in the freeze."
Ashley leaned into his touch, her breath ghosting warm against his wrist. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. "I wanted to look at the trees. They remember things the south forgets..."
Leon searched her face, finding underneath the same girl he fell in love with under the sun, and then, lingering on the round curve of her belly hidden beneath thick furs.
Under the canopy of weirwoods, they built something together.
He didn't ask her if she missed her roses. He didn't have to.
Leon slid his arm around her waist, lifting them both from the frozen ground and pulling her flush against his chest, shielding her from the wind.
"Let's go inside," he said, burying his face briefly in her blonde hair, inhaling the scent of pine and woodsmoke that now belonged to her. "Got a fire waiting for you."