Coldness set in gradually once your carriage left the Stormlands, creeping in mile by mile as you journeyed north.

You and Prince Oberyn had been married in Sunspear only months ago. The very next morning, when you were barely conscious, still heavy with the pleasant exhaustion of the marriage consummation, he had proposed, with that unmistakable grin of his, a honeymoon journey.

“It’s a big, beautiful world, sweetheart,” he’d said, slipping his arms around you from behind, nuzzling your neck. “Best to see it while you’re young.”

And so here you were now, at the very edge of the North, disguised as common travelers, savoring the road and each other’s company.

You were bundled as warmly as possible: a heavy bearskin cloak draped over your shoulders, a thick leather gown beneath it, and, thanks to Oberyn’s rare moment of practicality, a fur blanket he insisted tucked around you for extra warmth. Even so, the cold pressed close.

You leaned toward the carriage window, peeking outside. Snowflakes were already falling from the pale sky, light at first, but steady. Beyond the door, Oberyn rode easily alongside the carriage, seated comfortably on his steed. He looked almost unchanged from Dorne, only an extra cloak thrown over his usual attire, utterly unbothered by the cold, as if winter itself dared not touch him.

The moment you poked your head out farther, you sneezed immediately.

That was enough to catch his attention.

Oberyn whistled, clearly amused, earning him a glare from you in return. He only laughed louder. “Still cold, my lady?” he called out. “A true sweet summer child, your nan had you figured out well enough. But don’t worry. We’ll reach a tavern soon. We’ll rest there tonight.”