ROBB
"This is our surgical department," Ruyan explained, gesturing to a circular room with tiered seating surrounding a stone table at its centre. "Students observe procedures from these galleries, learning techniques before they attempt them under supervision."
Robb stood at the threshold, momentarily transfixed by the clinical precision of the space. Sunlight filtered through carefully positioned windows, illuminating the operating area without casting shadows. Channels had been carved into the stone table's surface, allowing fluids to drain away during procedures. The entire design spoke of centuries of refinement—of trial and error, success and failure, all in service of advancing medical knowledge.
"How many students train here?" he asked, struggling to keep the awe from his voice.
"Three hundred at any given time," Ruyan replied, her tone matter-of-fact but with a subtle undercurrent of pride. "Though only the most skilled twenty are permitted to observe the most complex procedures."
Everything about the Royal Medical Academy was revolutionary. Robb had spent the morning touring its various wings, each dedicated to a different aspect of healing arts. The herbal medicine hall contained thousands of labelled specimens, from common plants to rare fungi harvested from the distant shadowlands. The anatomy pavilion housed detailed models of the human body constructed from materials ranging from bamboo to jade, each designed to teach specific systems.
Most surprising had been the presence of female physicians. Though limited in the scope of their practice—primarily treating aristocratic women and children—their very existence challenged everything Robb had been taught about a woman's proper place. He thought of the Citadel — their cloistered halls, their secret oaths, their refusal to let women study. What was hoarded in Oldtown was simply taught here.
In combat, our field surgeons use a different system of triage than what you described in Westeros," Ruyan continued as they moved through the academy. "We prioritize those who can be quickly returned to battle, treating severe but survivable wounds next, and only then attending to the critically injured."
"That seems..." Robb struggled to find the word. "Callous."
Ruyan's expression didn't change. "It's practical. In battle, sentiment costs lives. By saving ten soldiers with moderate injuries in the time it would take to save one with critical injuries, more men survive overall. The critically wounded often die despite intervention."
"Prince Jian had mentioned battlefield medics, but this wasn't just care. It was strategy. Tactical healing. Medicine as warfare." Robb couldn't argue with the logic, though it disturbed him.
There was something coldly calculating about it that echoed what he found most unsettling about Ruyan herself—this ability to reduce human suffering to a mathematical equation, to see people as pieces in a larger system rather than individuals.
And yet, as they continued their tour, he couldn't deny the results.
"These are the isolation wards," Ruyan explained, leading him through a corridor with private rooms on either side, each with its own washing basin and separate ventilation system. "Patients with contagious diseases are kept apart to prevent spread."
The concept seemed so obvious now that Robb heard it, yet the idea of separating the sick to protect the healthy wasn't standard practice in Westeros. Even in Winterfell, where the maester was considered learned and modern, those with different ailments might be treated side by side in the same sick room.
As they visited the surgical instrument room, Robb examined curved needles designed specifically for stitching wounds, forceps of various sizes for extracting foreign objects, and delicate knives made for precise incisions.
"I recognize these," he commented, picking up a curved needle. "You introduced similar ones in Winterfell. The healer said they've reduced tearing when closing deep wounds."
Ruyan nodded. "A simple improvement, but effective."
During Ruyan's stay in Winterfell, she had shared the concept of small organisms theory, changing how wounds were treated and significantly reducing infections. The practices she'd introduced had decreased childbed fever dramatically, saving countless mothers' lives.
And that had only been a fraction of what she knew. Just one drop from an ocean he was only now seeing. The realization made him dizzy with possibility.
"And these rooms?" he asked, gesturing to a separate building connected by a covered walkway.
"The autopsy chambers," Ruyan replied. "When death occurs under suspicious circumstances, or when a disease is not understood, the body is examined to determine the cause. This has helped us identify new diseases and refined our understanding of human anatomy."
Robb thought of Old Nan's stories of grave robbers and necromancers, of the taboos surrounding the disturbance of the dead. In the North, such practices would be considered profane. Yet here they were presented as a natural extension of healing—learning from the dead to save the living.
"We'll see the vaccination chambers next," Ruyan continued, leading him toward another wing of the complex.
"Vaccination?" The term was unfamiliar.
"A method of preventing disease by introducing a weakened form of it to the body," she explained. "The body learns to fight the intruder, creating protection against future exposure."
The concept seemed almost magical in its implications. To deliberately introduce disease to prevent it? The idea challenged everything he understood about healing.
As they continued through the academy, Robb found himself overwhelmed by the scope and sophistication of what he was witnessing. From disease prevention to surgical procedures, from herbal remedies to anatomical study, every aspect of medicine seemed more advanced than anything he had encountered in Westeros.
And this was just one facet of what Yi Ti offered. He hadn't even seen their agricultural advancements yet, though he recalled Ruyan mentioning a certain type of rice that doubled as a cement-like material for construction.
This is the crème de la crème of what Yi Ti can offer, he realized. And Ruyan knew it. He could almost sense the smugness she must feel beneath that unnervingly cold exterior. She was showing him, deliberately and systematically, exactly what the North stood to gain from an alliance.
And gods help him, it was working.
The rational part of his mind—the part his father had trained to think like a lord, to weigh options and consider consequences—recognized the immense value of what was being offered. Knowledge that could save thousands of Northern lives, techniques that could improve crop yields during the brief summer growing seasons, systems of governance that could make the North more efficient and prosperous.
But another part of him, the part that valued honor and independence, that bridled at the method of his arrival in Yi Ti, still resisted. Every time he found himself impressed or interested, he remembered the bitter taste of the drugged wine in White Harbor, the helpless anger of waking on a foreign ship, the knowledge that his family believed him kidnapped.
And then there was Ruyan herself.
He glanced at her as she spoke with one of the physicians, her posture perfect, her gestures precise and economical. Everything about her was controlled, calculated, efficient. He wondered if she even knew how to be smug — or if emotion itself had been burned out of her under all that precision.
There was intelligence there, certainly, and a kind of beauty in her exotic features and graceful movements. But where was the warmth? The emotion? The humanity?
Could I truly bind myself to her for life? The question had begun to haunt him.
His parents' marriage had started as a political arrangement, but it had grown into a genuine partnership built on respect and affection. Was such a thing possible with someone like Ruyan? Or would he forever be merely a tool for her father's dynastic ambitions, a source of Northern blood to strengthen their magical bloodline?
"You seemed particularly interested in the surgical techniques," Ruyan observed as they departed the final wing of the academy. "Was there something specific that caught your attention?"
Robb considered his response carefully. "The knowledge here could save many Northern lives," he admitted. "Especially during winter, when diseases spread more easily in confined spaces."
Something flickered briefly in Ruyan's eyes—satisfaction, perhaps, at his acknowledgment of what Yi Ti could offer. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, her face returning to its usual impassive state.
"Medical knowledge is one of our greatest achievements," she said. "Though it serves purposes beyond healing."
Robb felt a chill at her words. "What do you mean?"
"Understanding anatomy and physiology—how bodies function and fail—teaches one not only how to heal, but also how to harm," she replied matter-of-factly. "The physician who knows how to close a wound also knows where to place a blade for maximum effect."
The casual admission added another item to Robb's growing list of unsettling things about Ruyan. A coldly analytical mind, a calculated approach to human life, and now this—an open acknowledgment that healing knowledge could double as a weapon. Was she warning him? Threatening him? Or simply stating a fact she thought he should know?
As they walked back toward the imperial palanquin that would return them to the palace, Robb found himself more conflicted than ever. Everything he had seen today pushed him toward accepting the alliance. The benefits for the North were undeniable, potentially transformative.
But the price... a marriage to this woman who spoke of using medical knowledge to kill as easily as to heal. A woman whose emotions—if she had any—remained locked behind an impenetrable imperial facade. A woman who represented a culture that had taken him by force when diplomacy failed.
He wanted something real. Not just duty. His parents had found that — a marriage that became a bond. He wanted at least the chance for that.
Desire versus duty. The words formed in his mind, crystallizing his dilemma. His desire was to return home, to reject this alliance born of coercion, to maintain the North's independence. His duty was to consider what would best serve his people—and that, increasingly, seemed to point toward accepting what Yi Ti offered.
At the very least, he wanted a harmonious relationship with his future wife. He had grown up witnessing the respect and affection between his parents, rare as it might be in arranged marriages. That was the minimum of what he wanted—a partner he could grow to love, who would love him in return.
Could Ruyan ever be that? Or would she always see him as merely a means to an end, a necessary component in her father's grand design?
As they settled into the palanquin, Robb gazed out at the city passing by, its ordered streets and elegant architecture so different from the rugged, practical construction of the North. He would be getting all this if he agreed to the alliance—knowledge, technology, systems refined over thousands of years.
But in exchange, he would be binding himself to a cold wife who might be capable of murder and assassination as readily as healing and creation. The thought chilled him even as the summer sun beat down on the palanquin's silk canopy.
What would Father do? he wondered, then almost laughed at the thought. His father would never have found himself in this position to begin with. Ned Stark would have seen through the Yitish princess from the start, would have increased security after her departure, would have prevented this entire situation.
But he wasn't Ned Stark. Not yet. And now he faced a choice that would shape not just his life, but the future of the North itself.
As the palanquin approached the imperial palace, Robb made a decision—not about the alliance, but about how to proceed. He would continue learning, continue observing. He would see what else Yi Ti had to offer, what further wonders and horrors awaited in this strange land.
And he would watch Ruyan more carefully. Not just her words and actions, but the fleeting expressions that occasionally broke through her imperial mask, the moments of genuine interest or pride that suggested there might be more to her than the cold, calculating princess she presented to the world.
For if he was to bind his life to hers, he needed to know if there was a human heart beating beneath that impeccable imperial exterior. Or if, as he sometimes feared, she truly was nothing more than the perfect doll Prince Jian had called her—beautiful, flawless, and ultimately empty.