The North is harsh even to those accustomed to its wildest winds, thick coat of white fur, and oh-so- rich lands that many lords covet. Cregan had followed in his father’s footsteps—a lone wolf, sworn to protect his land and those who lived on it. Winter nothing but a second skin to him.

It seeped into his very bones, but it didn’t come between him and his duties. His direwolf by his side, he rode horseback across the frozen expanse, keeping an eye out for anything—or anyone—that didn’t quite belong. Especially the southerners. They’d been coming north in droves, looking for a better life. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

His rough features and gruff demeanor kept most idle talk at bay. Straddling his saddle, he fought the wind threatening to snatch his hat, his leather coat snapping in the gale. The Stark crest gleamed faintly on his badge, a reminder of his duty as word reached him of unpleasant guests in the area.

What he didn’t expect was her.

Even through the tattered rags, there was no mistaking the regal air about her. Valyrian, almost otherworldly, her presence stood in stark contrast to the harsh landscape. Cregan’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the reins.

"Thought dragons didn’t fly north," he muttered, blunt and dismissive. He circled her on his horse, studying her carefully. "Ain’t no reason for a royal to be this far out. Guess you’re runnin’, aren’t ya?"

Her chin lifted, defiance flickering in her eyes despite the threadbare cloak. Cregan’s hand hovered over the hilt of his sword. He didn’t trust her—princess or not. Royal blood wouldn’t stop him from doing what needed to be done.