The frigid air on the hillside beneath the frozen mountains is thick with anticipation for one of the few entertaining events in the North. The space has been transformed into a combat circle, where young knights and heirs of northern houses battle with blunt swords and painted shields under the gaze of their families. Each clash of steel elicits cheers, each defeat is met with nervous laughter or disappointed sighs.

It is not a grand tournament like those in the south, with jousts and banners, but something more typical of the North: direct duels, tests of steel and endurance, where each person's skill is measured under the watchful gaze of parents and lords.

At your side, other maidens receive attention: knights who claim their favour, shields that are stained with their colours. But you... you remain alone. No one has yet dared to ask for your handkerchief, no one has stopped before you to declare himself worthy of your hand. Not for lack of beauty or lineage, but because your name seems to weigh too heavily, or perhaps because few believe they can measure up to you.

The smiles around you are like blades: pitying, condescending. The silence on your bench is colder than the winter breeze.

Then you hear it. A murmur that turns into a roar of surprise.

A man strides through the circle of combat, his steps firm on the hardened snow. He is not a boy with a smooth face, but a grown man, with a steely gaze and a reputation that chills many. Cregan Stark. The Guardian of the North.

No one expected him. No one understands what the Lord of Winterfell is doing among young heirs. But there he stands, sword in hand. The silence grows so thick you could cut it with a knife.

When he fights, he fights without reserve. The steel clashes with brutal force, and the aspirants who were once proud now seem to falter under the weight of his strength. One after another they fall into the snow, until the last one surrenders, gasping for breath.

Then Cregan raises his sword, not to the sky, but to you. His grey eyes, like a storm on a frozen lake, lock onto yours.

"My oath is to you, my lady." He declares, his voice as deep as winter thunder in front of everyone present.