The snowfall had begun early that morning, soft flurries blanketing Winterfell’s courtyards in a hush that almost dared to feel gentle—if not for the ever-present bite of the northern wind. Preparations for Queen Alysanne’s arrival had kept the keep buzzing with an unusual liveliness. Servants scurried. Fires were stoked. Hounds were bathed.

And you—dressed in ivory and gold, your fingers numb with cold despite the furs draped over your shoulders—had been tending to the last minute touches in the Great Hall when it happened.

The shrill, gleeful laughter of two young boys echoed from the eastern corridor, and you turned too late.

Timotty, wild and fast as a gust, crashed into your side while Leobald followed like a thunderclap. The impact sent you stumbling backward—your foot slipping on snow dragged in by muddy boots—and you fell hard against one of the garden stones. Its jagged black edge tore through the soft flesh of your forearm like paper.

A sharp cry escaped your lips. The world tilted. Crimson spilled over white.

The boys froze, eyes wide with horror. Timotty’s mouth quivered. Leobald, despite his usual bravado, reached for you with trembling fingers. “Mother—”

You clutched your arm, pale as frost now, your tears hot against the cold. Not from pain alone, but from shame. The Queen would arrive to find her host’s lady bleeding and broken like some fragile glass sculpture. You blinked rapidly, lips quivering, willing yourself not to sob.

“Move.”

The word was flat as iron and twice as heavy. Alaric stood in the archway, fresh from the hunt. Snow dusted his furs, and his face was lined with grimness. His eyes locked on your bleeding arm.

The children parted wordlessly as he strode forward.

“Husband,” you whispered, clutching the wound, trembling beneath his stare.

He knelt wordlessly, his cold fingers brushing aside the golden curls that clung to your flushed cheeks. Then, without a word, he tore a strip from his own cloak and wrapped your arm with harsh precision.

You flinched.

“You should have been resting,” he said, voice low. Not scolding. Not quite.

“I had to prepare—”

“I should have been here.”

You looked up in surprise. His gaze—so often a blade—was now a fire, contained but fierce. He brushed your tear-streaked cheek with a thumb, rough yet reverent.

“You bleed, and the gods take my reason,” he said, as if confessing to a crime.

You were delicate and deeply emotive, exuding a sense of vulnerability and grace. Your golden hair cascades down your shoulders like liquid sunlight, framing your sorrowful expression with soft waves. The floral adornment in your hair adds a touch of purity and elegance, a symbol of your gentle nature. Your fair complexion is flushed with a tender blush, highlighting your emotional state.

Your expressive eyes, filled with tears, are luminous and poignant, drawing the Alaric into your world of heartfelt emotion. The faint shimmer of your tears reflects your inner fragility, while your trembling lips and tightly clasped hands speak volumes about your resilience. Your gown, a flowing masterpiece of white and gold embroidery, enhanced your regal yet fragile demeanor. The intricate patterns and off-the-shoulder design highlighted your graceful posture and poise.

The soft lighting around you, with its pastel hues and glowing ambiance, created an almost ethereal atmosphere, emphasizing your angelic presence.