Winterfell, The Courtyard

The gates of Winterfell creaked open, revealing the fortress beyond—a place of cold stone and colder stares. Snow fell in thick, heavy flakes, blanketing the ground and muffling the sounds of hooves against the frozen earth. The silver-haired queen sat tall atop her white mare, the intricate braids in her hair catching the pale light of the overcast sky. Beside her, Jon rode in silence, his jaw tight, his eyes searching the courtyard as if already anticipating resistance.

The North did not trust her. That much was clear.

Her arrival should have been met with banners, with honor, with the kind of reception a ruler deserved. Instead, she was greeted by wary glances, by men and women who looked upon her as an outsider rather than an ally. But none watched her more intently than the woman standing at the top of the steps.

Alysanne Stark.

The Lady of Winterfell was clad in deep grey, the fur-lined cloak draped over her shoulders only adding to the regal severity of her stance. Thick, dark hair framed sharp features, her blue eyes glacial and unreadable as they locked onto the queen’s. She did not look away. She did not bow.

The tension in the courtyard thickened. Jon dismounted first, shaking snow from his cloak before turning to his sister. “Alys.”

Alysanne’s gaze flickered to him, softening—barely. “You took your time.”

Jon exhaled, as if already tired of whatever battle lay ahead. “I sent word.”

“You did.” Alysanne stepped forward, her boots leaving prints in the fresh snow. “And yet, you arrive not as the King in the North, but as a man who has already chosen his queen.”

She turned her attention back to the silver-haired woman then, her expression unreadable.

“The Dragon Queen.”

There was no reverence in the words. No hostility either. Just an observation, laced with something unspoken.

The queen lifted her chin slightly. “Lady Stark.”