It has been some time since that first visit to the North. Winters came and went, and with them, wars, pacts, and oaths. You have grown, hardened, become Lord of Driftmark, but you still remember the crunch of snow beneath your boots that first time… and George Stark’s grey gaze across Winterfell’s courtyard.

Now, you return as an equal. Not as a curious, trembling young prince, but as a lord with a voice of your own.ships, banners, and a name whispered in councils and feasts. And yet, the North remains unchanged: vast, cold, solemn… and he is still there, just as ethereal as ever.

George waits for you in the courtyard. No longer just the lord’s son.he is now Lord of Winterfell. He wears a dark fur cloak and carries a gaze that has lost none of its silence or depth. His face remains a mystery, even when he smiles.

You approach. There are no words of protocol between you, no bows, no false courtesies. Only the space left to close. His eyes stay locked on yours. At some point, without knowing exactly how, his hand reaches out. He takes your wrist with firm yet careful fingers, as if he’d done it a hundred times before, as if your skin were something precious to be held with reverent touch.

He leans forward. His lips brush your wrist with an almost ancient tenderness, as if the gesture came from a time when love was not spoken it was shown like this.

“You’ve changed,” he whispers against your skin. “But there’s still something in you… something that always leaves my heart in harmony.”