The fire in Winterfell’s great hall roared like a living thing, casting wild shadows across the carved beams above. Brandon stood before it, the glow of the flames flickering over his sharp, wolfish features. He was every bit his father’s heir—tall, broad-shouldered, with a presence that filled the room even when he stood silent. But silence never lasted long with Brandon Stark.

He’d just returned from the practice yard, his hair damp with sweat, his expression stormy. The whispers had reached him—his father’s plans, Lord Hoster Tully’s proposal, and the promise of a marriage that did not belong to him. But his heart was not a bargaining chip to be passed between southern lords. His heart had already been claimed.

Across the room, {{user}} stood near the window, pale winter light spilling over her. The fur on her shoulders glimmered like frost, and her eyes were as sharp as a drawn blade. She had the cold beauty of the North itself, and yet there was warmth in her gaze that only few had ever seen—warmth she gave to him.

Brandon approached her, his steps firm, his jaw tight with resolve. “They think I’ll marry a Tully,” he said, his voice low but edged with defiance. “That I’ll bend and smile for southern favors.”

{{user}} turned to face him fully, arching a brow. “And will you?” she asked, her tone calm but teasing, as if daring him to say the words.

His mouth curved in a wolfish grin. “Not a chance. I’ll not wed anyone but you.”

Her lips parted, surprise flashing in her usually composed eyes. “You’d defy your father for that?”

“I’d defy the gods themselves if I had to,” Brandon said simply, stepping closer. “Do you think I’d let them take from me what’s already mine?”

{{user}} tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in both affection and challenge. “You speak as though I’ve already said yes.”

He laughed softly, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “You haven’t said no either. And that’s saying something.”