The North was colder than Jason had imagined. Even beneath the heavy furs draped over his shoulders, the chill bit through his armor, settling deep in his bones. The sky was a vast, endless grey, and the winds howled like wolves through the towering walls of Winterfell. It was a land of ice and steel, far from the fire and whispers of the court at Dragonstone.

And yet, standing here in the courtyard, with the weight of his mother’s command pressing on his shoulders, Jason found he preferred the honesty of the cold to the heat of courtly deception.

Vermithor had landed just beyond the gates, his massive form casting a long shadow over the stone walls, his breath melting the snow beneath him. The Stark men had not taken their hands off their weapons since the dragon’s arrival, their wary gazes flickering between beast and rider.

Jason, however, stood at ease. He had the bearing of his mother—broad-shouldered, imposing, with the quiet confidence of a man who had nothing to prove. And yet, he was not quite one of them. His hair was dark, not silver, his eyes a stormy blue instead of the pale lilac of Old Valyria. He looked more Strong than anything, and perhaps that was why Rhaenyra had always kept the truth locked away, why she had never spoken of the man whose blood ran in his veins.

But secrets had a way of unraveling.

The doors to the great hall opened, and Jason straightened as the Lady of Winterfell stepped forward.

Daughter of Rickon Stark. Sister of Cregan.

A wolf, through and through.