Margaery would never belong here, she knew. It was a place of fog and stone, where nothing in the earth thrived, where the land yielded little. The stews they dined on each night were flavored well enough, if mostly comprised of beets, turnips, and barleycorn. Margaery longed for the fruits of Highgarden -- to feel the juice of a perfectly ripe white peach running down her chin, the snap of the skin on a tart green grape, served on ice in a silver bowl.
The Starks were kind in their cold way, and darling Sansa was like a sister to her. She trailed her fingers along a wall on the way to her chamber: it was blood-warm to the touch. The hot springs that fed her baths kept the stone walls at a suitable temperature. Even a Southron girl such as she was warm enough, especially since Lady Catelyn saw that she had heavy fires stoked in her chambers. On her wedding day the northerners had gifted her with giant sleeping skins. A heap of furs had been piled at her feet, all bleak shades of white and grey and silver.
After she had been bathed, Margaery dismissed her lady's maid. The nightshift she had left for her to dress in was too plain, she decided, and so she dragged one of the heavy furs, shaggy white tipped with black, over to the hearth and wrapped herself in it. The heat hit her cheeks, warming the thin skin there. She felt it too on her chest, her belly, and then her thighs as she lifted up the fur, baring herself to the fire. She covered herself from the waist down when the oaken door opened softly and closed. The wolf padded across the rushes and paced before the hearth. He did not sit until Robb did, turning himself three times before settling on his front paws.
Margaery reached for Grey Wind, who licked her fingers.
"He likes you."
Margaery laughed. "Too much, I think, my lord."
Robb lifted the fur to see her. Grey Wind's ears pricked up at the slight noise his master made. His master, her husband, brushed the length of her spine with his foreknuckles.
"I can see you, through him," Robb said. A lie, she assumed, but an oddly courteous one.
"And what do you see?" she asked, in turn, shifting the swell of her bottom against his body. "Your next meal? Or a thing more sinister than that?"
"He sees you as I do," Robb said, white teeth at her throat.
"As what, my lord? A frightened little rabbit?" she teased.
"Aye," he grunted. His hand was on hers, her hand was on him, through his pants, and his hand was on her. He tore at her neck more gently than a wolf would, but there would be marks all the same. He pressed against one with his thumb and she hissed as he lined up against her.
"Best be quick about it," she breathed, "Before I run away and hide."
Robb hitched her thigh over his leg. The warmth of the fire felt as though it would singe the fine hairs below, and the skin of her stomach burned hot. The fabric of his breeches pressed rough against her arse, as Robb slipped inside of her. He bent himself double to hook her knee under his elbow, twisting her open.
"You're not going anywhere," he breathed out, his lips grazing her cheek. Margaery's eyes fluttered shut and then open again. Grey Wind was looking at her reproachfully. She looked away before her pleasure did the same, tearing at the white fur beneath them as Robb rocked against her, cradling her in his strong arms.
He twisted her strangely, falling upon her neck, lifting her back and down until they were a tangle of limbs and fur, heated through with fire and passion. Margaery lay on her upper arm, watching the fire flicker, as warm as she could ever hope to be in the North.