Chapter Text
The camp was loud.
Which was good. Loud meant alive. Loud meant no one was sneaking up on anyone. Loud meant dice clattering, people yelling about rules they’d definitely just made up, someone singing very badly and somehow louder every verse.
Ylva liked loud.
It meant she could sit near the fire with her boots up on a crate, arms crossed, face calm and intimidating, while her brain absolutely vibed.
Wow. Look at me. Sitting by a campfire. In another world. Again. Still cannot believe this is my life.
She’d been here long enough that the novelty should’ve worn off.
It hadn’t.
She still loved the crackle of firewood. The smell of smoke and sweat and bad wine. The way the sky looked bigger out here, like it didn’t care who you were or where you came from.
Which was great, because she’d already lived one life where the sky was mostly a ceiling.
Hospital ceilings were boring. White. Always staring back at you like hey, you’re still stuck here. Her modern life had been like that with rooms within rooms, permission slips for everything, dreaming about places she’d never see.
She’d sworn she wouldn’t waste this one.
Which was why she’d run off at the first real chance.
Winterfell had been warm. Safe. Loving.
Also suffocating.
Her mother cried every time she left. Her father pretended not to notice how she always packed too lightly, like she wasn’t planning to stay anywhere long. Arya had begged to come with her, eyes bright and reckless. Sansa had stood in the doorway, confused but smiling, holding her hand like Ylva might disappear forever if she let go.
Technically I did disappear forever once. But we’re not unpacking that right now.
She smiled faintly to herself, staring into the fire.
Someone across the camp shouted, “You cheated!”
“I absolutely did not!”
“You absolutely did!”
Mira’s voice cut through the argument like a thrown dagger. “If you two don’t shut up, I’m confiscating the dice and eating them.”
That got laughter.
Mira was sitting cross-legged near the fire, dagger balanced lazily across her knee, grin sharp and unapologetic. She looked like trouble. She usually was.
Behind her, Hobb hunched over a pot that had no business smelling as good as it did, humming to himself as he stirred. Someone had tried to steal from him earlier. That person had failed.
Ylva didn’t move. Didn’t smile.
From the outside, she probably looked bored. Detached. Very cool.
Inside?
They’re idiots. My idiots..
Ylva is the leader of a mercenary company, The Northless, one of the most fearsome. They were loud, messy, and affectionate in the way only people who’d survived too much together could be. They argued. They sang. They stole each other’s food and then shared it anyway.
But they also listened when it mattered.
Which was why the camp going quiet all at once was… alarming.
A laugh cut off mid-sentence. Dice stopped rolling. Someone swore softly, confused, like they didn’t know why their mouth had moved.
Ylva noticed before anyone else did.
She always did.
She was already standing when the man stumbled into the firelight.
Mud on his boots. Road in his bones. The kind of exhaustion you didn’t get from traveling.
Her chest tightened.
The man’s eyes locked on Ylva.
“I bring word from King’s Landing.”
Ah. Fantastic. I hate that place.
Mira, vice leader of the Northless, was already on her feet, hand out. She took the letter and passed it to Ylva without comment.
The letter was damp when it touched her palm. The seal was cracked and smeared, the paper creased like it had been folded and unfolded too many times.
Ylva unfolded it carefully.
Read it once.
Then again.
Her face didn’t change, but her grip tightened until the paper bowed under her fingers.
Mira’s voice dropped. “Ylva?”
Ylva looked up at the messenger.
“How,” she asked.
The word came out calm.
“Lord Eddard Stark was executed,” the man said. “By order of King Joffrey Baratheon.”
The fire popped.
Somewhere behind them, someone sucked in a breath.
Ylva didn’t move.
“How,” she asked again.
“Beheaded,” the man said softly. “On the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor.”
For a moment, nothing happened.
No collapse. No scream. No blade drawn.
Just Ylva standing there, staring at him like he’d spoken a language she didn’t fully understand.
Her eyes went wet anyway. One tear slipped free. Then another.
She blinked, slow. Jaw tightening.
“Why.”
“They claimed he confessed and bent his knees. The queen promised mercy. The king chose otherwise.”
Ylva turned her gaze to the fire. Sparks rose and vanished into the dark. Her shoulders drew in just slightly, like the night had gotten colder.
When she spoke again, her voice was steady. Quieter.
“My father is dead.”
The words settled over the camp like ash.
Ylva didn’t wipe her face. Didn’t swipe the tears away like they weren’t there. She let them fall and held her posture anyway.
The Northless shifted not toward their weapons, but inward, like something protective had snapped into place.
Mira stepped closer.
Ylva folded the letter with deliberate care and tucked it into her belt.
“The North will answer,” she said. “Robb called the banners.”
A pause.
No one cheered.
No jokes. No noise.
Just nods. Hands resting on hilts. Faces hardening from the inside out.
The messenger hesitated, then let Hobb guide him toward the fire.
“Eat,” Ylva told him. “Then sleep. You look like you’ll die if you blink wrong.”
She turned away before anyone could say anything else.
People watched her. Not the usual “captain’s about to pick someone to fight” watching. The other kind. The kind filled with anger and sadness.
Ylva kept her expression level as she walked, even with her eyes still hot and red.
Mira followed without speaking.
They made it to Ylva’s tent before Mira finally broke.
“I hate them,” Mira said, like it was a confession. “I hate all of them.”
Ylva took a breath. “Yeah.”
Mira stared at her. “That’s it? ‘Yeah’?”
Ylva’s throat tightened. She swallowed it down.
If I say anything else, I might say too much.
“What do you want me to say?” Ylva asked.
Mira’s face crumpled for half a second, then she shoved it back into place like she’d never let it happen.
“I want you to say you’re okay,” Mira muttered.
Ylva looked at her.
I wish I was.
“I’m not,” she said.
Mira hugged her tight.
Ylva froze for half a second then let herself lean in.
Just this once.
They stood there in the quiet for a moment, listening to the camp outside quieter than usual, like even the loudest people didn’t know what to do with grief.
Mira spoke softly. “We can take the long road. Avoid the main routes.”
“We’re not hiding,” Ylva said.
If I start hiding now, I’ll never stop.
Mira’s mouth twitched. “That wasn’t hiding. That was… scenic.”
Ylva almost smiled. Almost.
I’ll smile again later. I promise.
“You remember when you used to sneak Arya out at night?” Mira asked quietly.
Ylva’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
Gods. Arya.
“She followed you like a duckling,” Mira continued. “Like you were some kind of heroic legend.”
Ylva stared into the embers. “She thought everything I did was cool.”
She still does. And that’s terrifying, actually.
Mira’s voice softened. “She still does.”
Ylva didn’t answer.
The thought hit too hard, too fast.
Arya, all sharp edges and bright eyes, wanting to be like her. Wanting to run. Wanting to fight. Wanting more than the world was willing to give her.
I should’ve taken her with me, Ylva thought, immediately followed by, No. That would’ve been worse. Much worse.
Sansa came to her mind next, uninvited.
Sansa with her careful posture and neat braids, trying so hard to be good at being what everyone wanted her to be. Sansa who never understood why Ylva didn’t just stay. Why she didn’t just put on a nice dress and let life be simple.
Sansa didn’t understand.
But she loved anyway.
And Catelyn..
Ylva swallowed.
Her mother worried like breathing. Prayed like it was a duty. Ylva could picture her so clearly it almost hurt.. the way she’d look at Ylva like she was already gone, even when she was standing right there.
She’d never been angry.
Just scared.
I should’ve stayed longer, Ylva thought. Just one more winter.
“We leave at first light,” she said instead.
Mira nodded. “First light.”
Ylva kept her gaze on the embers. “Tell everyone we’re moving. I'm going home.”
Mira replied instantly. “Yes, my lord.”
“I told you to stop calling me lord..”
They sat together until the last coals died.
-----
At dawn, the Northless moved like a storm finally choosing a direction.
A few days passed by, and the air grew colder as they went north. The wind changed. It felt sharper. More honest. The trees thickened. The sky looked lower.
Home started to feel real in a way it hadn’t for years.
They saw Stark scouts on the third day.
Two men on horseback, watching from a ridge. When they realized who they were looking at, one of them nearly rode off his own path.
A runner came fast not long after.
“The King in the North has been told,” he said, breathless, eyes flicking between Ylva and the Northless like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be afraid of. “He wishes to see you.”
Ylva didn’t flinch at the title.
She also didn’t smile.
“Take me to him,” she said.
The runner hesitated. “Alone.”
Mira shifted immediately. “Yeah, no.”
Ylva lifted a hand slightly. Mira stopped.
Ylva glanced back at her company. “Hold here. No trouble.”
A few people grumbled like children being told to behave.
Mira stepped closer. “You sure?”
Ylva nodded once. “I’m sure.”
Mira’s mouth twitched. “Okay. But if anyone looks at you wrong, I’m biting them.”
Ylva gave her a look.
Mira smiled innocently. “Metaphorically. Hehe.”
Ylva followed the runner through the camp perimeter and into the heart of the Stark host.
It was different from the Northless camps in every way.
Structured. Tense. Too many boys trying to stand like men. Too many men trying not to look afraid.
Banners snapped in the wind. Direwolves were painted on cloth and carved into shields, like the whole camp was reminding itself what it was supposed to be.
Ylva walked through it and felt eyes on her.
Some recognized her immediately.
Some didn’t but they recognized something in the way people moved around her.
She reached the main tent.
Robb was already outside when he saw her.
For a second, he just stared.
Then he crossed the distance and pulled her into a fierce embrace.
“You came,” he said, voice rough.
“I heard,” Ylva replied.
Catelyn was right behind him.
She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t scold. Didn’t cry.
She simply wrapped her arms around Ylva and held on like she’d been waiting for this exact moment since the day Ylva first ran off.
“I prayed,” Catelyn whispered. “Every night.”
Ylva leaned into her. “I know.”
Catelyn pulled back, hands warm on Ylva’s face, searching.
“You lived,” she said firmly. “That matters.”
Ylva swallowed.
Something in Ylva’s chest twisted.
“Thank you.”
“You brought your company,” Robb continued, glancing past her.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Five hundred.”
Robb let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Of course you did.”
Ylva almost smiled.
Almost.
“The lords are gathered tonight,” Robb said. “I want you there.”
Ylva already knew what that meant.
“All right.”
“They’ll look at you,” Robb added, quieter. “They’ll remember. Or pretend they don’t.”
He met her gaze. “You’re my sister. I won’t act like you’re not.”
Something warm and painful twisted in her chest.
“Thank you,” she said.
“We march soon,” Robb continued. “I’ll take every help I can get.”
“Good,” Ylva said.
Robb’s eyes sharpened. “Good?”
Ylva lifted her chin, calm again. Collected again.
“They should’ve left him alive.”
Robb stared at her.
Then nodded once. “Yeah. They should’ve.”
Ylva turned back toward her people.
The Northless were laughing again.. low, rough, like they were scraping grief off their teeth. But when Ylva stepped into view, the laughter faded.
Five hundred faces turned toward her.
She didn’t speak.
She just lifted her hand once.
They moved into the Stark camp like water finding its place—messy, loud, alive… and dangerous.
Mira jogged up to her. “So. How’d it go? Did you scare them?”
“Dinner,” Ylva said.
Mira confused. “Ohhh. Dinner?”
Ylva’s mouth tightened. “Dinner.”
Mira bumped her shoulder. “It’ll be fine.”
Ylva didn’t answer.
Because fine wasn’t a thing anymore.
Not after King’s Landing.
Not after the letter.
Not after her father’s name became something people whispered.
She walked deeper into the Stark camp, feeling the eyes, feeling the shift, feeling the North recognize her again.
And she kept her face calm.
Even when her thoughts were anything but.
-----
The dining hall was already loud when Ylva arrived.
The kind where voices carried just far enough to be heard, laughter sharpened with competition, cups raised a little too often. Long tables stretched the length of the hall, banners hanging overhead like they were watching everything unfold.
Every major house was here.
Karstark. Umber. Mormont. Names that had weight in the North. Men who were used to being listened to.
Ylva paused just inside the doorway.
Wow.. This place smells like politics and overcooked meat.
She took one step forward.
And the room shifted.
Not dramatically. No one shouted. No cups fell.
But heads turned.
Eyes followed.
Whispers started, soft and fast, like sparks catching dry grass.
“That’s her.”
“Ned Stark’s eldest.”
“I thought she was dead.”
“No. Ran off years ago.”
“With sellswords?”
“Gods, look at her..”
Ylva ignored all of it with the practiced ease of someone who had learned long ago not to react.
Robb stood near the high table, already watching her. Relief crossed his face the moment he saw her, quick and unguarded before he smoothed it away.
She walked toward him at an easy pace, boots quiet against stone. Seven Northless including Mira followed behind her, not in a tight formation, not marching, just drifting in like they belonged.
Which somehow made it worse.
They didn’t look impressed.
They didn’t look intimidated.
They looked curious.
That alone unsettled people.
Mira leaned in just enough to murmur, “Wow. They’re staring like you’re about to start juggling knives.”
Ylva didn’t look at her. “Should I?”
Mira grinned. “Later.”
Robb stepped forward to meet her.
She turned as he gestured her toward the table. “Sit with me.”
Ylva nodded and took the offered place, ignoring the way a few lords stiffened at the sight of her sitting so close to Robb.
Oh. That’s going to be a problem later. Not my problem. But a problem.
She rested her forearms lightly on the table, posture relaxed, gaze steady.
The murmurs continued.
One man down the table, a Karstark, leaned toward his neighbor, voice not quite low enough.
“Strange,” he said. “I expected… less armor.”
Ylva heard him.
Of course she did.
She didn’t respond.
Another lord snorted. “A woman leading sellswords. Gods, the North grows stranger every year.”
Wow.. We’re doing this already. Speedrun, apparently.
Robb’s jaw tightened.
Ylva noticed.
She reached out and tapped his knuckles once, subtle. A quiet don’t.
He glanced at her, surprised.
She gave him a faint look. Not quite a smile.
Food was served.
The talking grew louder.
And then one of them, some minor lord whose name Ylva didn’t bother remembering, cleared his throat.
“Lady Ylva,” he said, raising his cup. “A question, if I may.”
Ylva met his gaze calmly.
“Yes?”
His eyes traveled over her, slow and appraising in a way that made the back of her neck itch.
“Forgive me,” he continued, smiling like he thought he was being charming, “but I can’t help but wonder.. why a woman of such beauty would choose a life like this. Swords and mud and blood. Surely staying in Winterfell would suit you better.”
A pause.
The hall went quieter.
Ah.. There it is.
She set her cup down carefully.
“Well,” she began, voice even, “I-”
“She doesn’t need to answer that!”
Mira’s voice cut in, bright and sharp.
She’d stepped forward from behind Ylva, one hand resting casually on the hilt of her blade.
The lord frowned. “And you are?”
Mira smiled sweetly. “The one who fights so she doesn’t have to.”
A few people chuckled nervously.
The lord scoffed. “This is a noble table. If Lady Stark wishes to speak, she may do so herself.”
Ylva tilted her head slightly and face plammed.
Mira.. please don’t..
“She wishes,” Mira said pleasantly, “that you’d mind your own business.”
The lord’s smile hardened. “Careful. You forget where you stand.”
Mira glanced around the room. Then back at him.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think I do.”
The man pushed back his chair and stood.
That was the mistake.
Ylva felt it ripple through the room before it even happened.
Chairs scraped. Hands twitched toward weapons.
And then
It was over.
The Northless moved like they’d been waiting for permission they didn’t need.
In the span of a heartbeat the lord’s guards' wrists were caught, bent, disarmed. Swords were twisted free and pinned to tables.
No blood.
Just the Northless demonstrating exactly why they were feared.
The lord who had stood found himself frozen, Mira’s blade resting lightly at his throat.
Ylva hadn’t moved.
She hadn’t even stood.
She lifted her cup and took a slow sip.
Around the hall, nobles stared in stunned silence.
Some looked furious.
Most looked afraid.
Robb looked… impressed.
Ylva finally spoke.
“Enough,” she said quietly.
The Northless froze.
Mira withdrew her blade instantly, stepping back without complaint.
The hall exhaled.
Ylva set her cup down and looked at the lord who had started it.
“I’m not here to be a lady,” she said calmly. “I’m here because my father is dead. Because my brother is at war. And because the North needs every strength it has.”
She met his eyes.
“If that makes you uncomfortable,” she continued, “you’re welcome to look elsewhere.”
Silence.
No one argued.
Ylva leaned back in her chair, expression composed.
Mira leaned down, her voice barely a breath against Ylva’s ear.
“So… is this what you meant by that thing you call it. Uh. Aura? Farming?”
Oh no.. She remembers T-T
Ylva didn’t smile.
But the corner of her mouth twitched, just enough.
Around them, the hall remained unnaturally still. Men who had commanded others their whole lives now sat quiet, eyes flicking not to Ylva’s hands but to the people standing behind her. To the way they hadn’t hesitated. To the way they’d stopped the instant she spoke.
The North learned something that night.
Ylva Stark did not need to raise her voice.
She did not need to draw her blade.
She had people who moved when she breathed, who listened when she said nothing at all. People who had chosen her, not for gold or title, but because they believed in her.
And they would follow her anywhere.
Even to death.