After the crown was laid at Aegon’s feet, Winterfell felt colder than it ever had before. Torrhen Stark had summoned his sons and spoken the new truth aloud: there would be no princes of the North now, no royal court, no crown to inherit—only lordship beneath a southern king none of them had chosen. When her husband returned to Alarra’s chamber, his face was dark with shame and anger, and she rose from her seat before the hearth, already knowing enough from his silence.

"No." Her hands tightened around the edge of her sleeve. "Your father may call it wisdom if he likes. I call it cowardice. You were born a prince. I married a prince. This is not peace, it is surrender. How can you let him do this to you?!"