“So how does it feel to married off like a little lady of
the North?” John joked as he watched his half-brother pace the room.
“I swear if she’s some shy little thing father will hear no
end of it, I do not want a girl forever clinging to my side.” Robb grumbled.
“Well let us hope the gods will help hear your wishes and
give you a woman as wild as Arya.” John’s comment was met with a deep chuckle
as their father wondered into the room.
“She is here.” He led his son through Winterfell until he
stopped outside a small room that was usually kept for small meetings.
You were the first person Robb’s eyes settled on and your beauty
took his breath away, no one said anything as they watched the oldest Stark
Child stare at you as if the gods themselves had sent you to him.
“Lord Stark, May I present my niece Lady (Y/N) of House
Estermont, second cousin of King Baratheon’s Mother.” An elderly lady muttered
politely. You curtsied to the people gathered in front of you and let Lady
Stark lead you by the hand, out into a patio area with Robb close behind.
Robb didn’t leave your side; he even began finding ways to
sneak past the handmaidens that watched over you to leave you flowers or small
trinkets. Your stay at Winterfell wasn’t long but Robb’s infatuation with you
seemed to defy time itself.
A faint knock on your door roused you from your sleep, you
carefully padded your way to the door, smiling when Robb pushed into your room.
“You should not be here.” You whispered. He smiled and
gently placed his hands on your hips, looking at you nervously for a moment
before kissing you softly.
“I know but you leave tomorrow… I had yet to kiss you.” Robb’s
smile seemed to brighten as you giggled and placed your hands on his chest,
leaning up to press a chaste kiss onto his lips.
“I will be back in one month, Robb.” His hand cups one cheek as he looks at you
“That is one month to long my love.” He muttered, hugging you
to his chest.
On 22 August 1485, Lady Margaret Beaufort’s only son, Henry Tudor, defeated King Richard III and his Yorkist army at the Battle of Bosworth Field thus ending the Wars of the Roses and becoming King Henry VII of England. It is widely believed that Margaret’s relentless belief in him and promotion of his interests largely influenced Henry’s success.
It’s almost as good as if some wolf killed your traitor brother. Maybe I’ll feed him to wolves after I’ve caught him. Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?”
“I should like to see that, Your Grace.” More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey’s eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him. “Will you enter the lists today?” she asked quickly.
The king frowned. “My lady mother said it was not fitting, since the tourney is in my honor. Otherwise I would have been champion. Isn’t that so, dog?”
The Hound’s mouth twitched. “Against this lot? Why not?
A friendly reminder that on Christmas eve 1487 Elizabeth of York dined in her apartments with her mother - Queen Dowager Elizabeth Woodville, and her mother-in-law - My Lady The King’s Mother Margaret Beaufort.
‘There is a wonderful roughness on the skin, and I put my hand down and pull up my nightgown to see both knees, and they are the same: roughened and red. Saints’ knees, praise God, I have saints’ knees, I have prayed so much, and on such hard floors, that the skin of my knees is becoming hard, like the callus on the finger of an English longbowman. I am not yet ten years old, but I have saints’ knees. This has got to count for something, whatever my old lady governess may say to my mother about excessive and theatrical devotion. I have saints’ knees. I have scuffed the skin of my knees by continual prayer; these are my stigmata: saints’ knees. Pray God I can meet their challenge and have a saint’s end too.’
-10 year old Margaret Beaufort, “The Red Queen,” by Philippa Gregory