The dragons come like thunder on the wind.

Vermax circles once overhead, his massive shadow blacking out the snowy clearing before he lands with a thunderous impact that shakes the frost from the pine trees. Moondancer, graceful and pale as moonlight on ice, alights beside him with a scream that echoes off the stone ramparts of Winterfell.

Two figures dismount—Jacaerys first, dark curls tousled by wind, eyes sharp despite the cold; and Baela beside him, cloaked in midnight blue, silver-blonde hair braided back with warrior’s beads.

But no lord rides to meet them.

Instead, a group of grim-faced warriors emerges from the gate—six or seven men, all towering, fur-clad, and bearded, with faces like granite and shoulders like mountains. These are no polished knights of the South. These are Northern men—hulking things carved of ice and iron, axes on their backs and wolf pelts on their shoulders.

They do not bow. One of them steps forward, expression unreadable beneath a beard laced with snow.

“You’ll come with us,” he says. “The Lady waits.”

Baela raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Jace gives a curt nod, lips drawn tight. He had expected Cregan Stark, young lord and rumored ice-hearted warrior. Instead, he’s being ushered into a keep that feels more like a fortress, by men who look like they’d rather split skulls than shake hands.

They’re taken through great stone halls, their boots echoing on the floor. The air inside is warmer, but just barely. No silken banners or golden chandeliers here—only iron sconces, old tapestries, and flickering firelight dancing against the gloom.

Finally, they’re led to a chamber off the great hall—a sitting room of sorts, though no one would dare call it dainty. A heavy hearth burns low at the far end, casting a golden glow over bearskin rugs and carved oak chairs. A decanter of mulled wine steams on the table, untouched.

And there—already waiting, seated in one high-backed chair with one leg crossed neatly over the other—is her.

Lady {{user}}.

She does not rise. She does not curtsy.

She only looks at them with steady, winter-grey eyes—young, yes, but carved of something old. Her hair is dark, braided like the others of her house, a silver pin clasping her cloak. There’s no crown upon her brow, and yet the entire room seems to answer to her presence.

Baela, stiff-spined, bows her head first. “My lady.”

Jacaerys follows, just a beat behind. “We expected your brother, Lord Cregan.”