The moonlight bathed the godswood in silver, casting long shadows between the ancient weirwood and the delicate blooms of winter roses. Baela walked slowly, her fingers grazing the petals, feigning admiration for the flowers when her true prize stood a few steps away the Stark heir, watching her with quiet curiosity.

Lord Brandon plucked a single blue rose, offering it with a small, knowing smile. “The most beautiful flower in Winterfell’s gardens, as promised.”

Baela took it gently, brushing the petals against her lips. “A fair gift, my lord.”

But her gaze lingered, not on the flower, but on the young wolf who did not yet know he had already been claimed. She would visit him before the next morning.