The courtyard of Winterfell was draped in silver and white, the soft snow falling from the heavens like drifting feathers. The chill in the air bit against the skin, but for the people of the North, it was nothing more than another day. Lord Torrhen stood proudly at the gates with his sons, his breath fogging in the crisp morning air. But it was his daughter, Lady {{user}}, who drew the attention of every southerner that day.

She stood beside her father, cloaked in white fur, her dark hair glinting beneath the pale light. Her eyes — sharp, clear, and full of warmth — caught the morning sun as she smiled softly at the arriving royal company. Even the dragons seemed to hush as the King’s entourage approached.

When King Aegon dismounted, his silver hair shining like frost, he greeted the Starks with the honor due to the Kings of Winter. “It has been far too long since the dragons have paid their respects to the wolves,” he said, his tone warm.

“My King,” Torrhen replied with a low bow. “Winterfell welcomes you.”

Aegon’s gaze moved toward {{user}}, and his expression softened. “And this must be the pearl I’ve heard so much about,” he said, smiling. “Your beauty rivals even the tales.”

“Your Grace is too kind,” she answered, her voice steady yet bright, every word tinged with the calm grace of the North.

From behind the King, Prince Maegor dismounted, his movements deliberate. His armor gleamed beneath his cloak of black and red, and when his gaze lifted, it met hers. The moment was brief but heavy. She had seen the glint of cruelty in his eyes — that sharp, cold fire that had frightened even knights twice his age. But in that moment, there was something else there. Something uncertain.

He had heard stories of her, of course — the Lady Stark who charmed courts and smallfolk alike, the one spoken of with admiration and a touch of envy. Yet none of the songs had prepared him for the way she smiled without fear. The way her laughter — soft and melodic — dared to touch even the corners of his dark heart.

At supper that night, she sat across the long table, seated near Queen Visenya, who had taken an immediate liking to her. “The girl has steel,” Visenya remarked quietly to her brother. “Look how she meets every gaze without flinching.”

Aegon smiled faintly. “The North breeds strength. I see no fear in her.”

But Maegor barely heard them. His gaze flickered toward {{user}} often, though he made every attempt not to let it show. She noticed, of course. How could she not? He was a man impossible to ignore — all sharp edges and silence, with eyes that seemed to measure every soul in the room.

When the feast began to fade, she found herself walking through the godswood. The air was sharp, carrying the scent of pine and snow. She didn’t hear his approach — only the crunch of boots against the snow.

“Your Grace,” she greeted softly when she turned, her breath visible in the cold. “You walk quietly for a man in armor.”

Maegor stopped a few paces away, his face unreadable. “I was told Northern ladies feared neither man nor beast,” he said, his tone low and rough.