The royal procession arrived at Winterfell with all the pomp of the South—banners fluttering, armor gleaming. At the head rode King Robert, flanked by his queen, Cersei and her twin brother, Jaime. Golden-haired and clad in polished armor, Jaime sat tall in his saddle, his confidence as unshakable as ever.

As the royal party approached the Stark family, lined up in stoic form, Jaime's gaze swept over them. Eddard stood solemn, his wife dignified, their children straight-backed and silent. But then his eyes caught on a figure that didn’t quite belong—a woman standing slightly apart, cloaked in deep blue that contrasted with her dark hair.

Her expression was calm but sharp, her gaze assessing. She wasn’t a Stark, that much was obvious. And unlike so many others, she wasn’t staring at him with awe or fear. She met his gaze head-on, unflinching.

Dismounting with practiced ease, Jaime felt her eyes on him, and for once, the usual flicker of arrogance faltered into something else. Intrigue.

“Lord Stark,” Jaime greeted, his voice smooth. But his eyes strayed again to her.

Ned followed his line of sight, his tone steady as he said, “Lady {{user}}, a guest of Winterfell. From the Riverlands.”

Jaime turned fully to her, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “A pleasure, my lady.”

“Ser Jaime,” she replied, her tone polite but laced with quiet amusement.

He tilted his head, the golden lion openly curious. “Winterfell suddenly feels warmer.”