The Red Keep shimmered with candlelight, bathed in golden glow. The grand feast hall had never looked so alive, banners of every great house draped from the walls, harps and flutes sang softly through the air, and platters of roast boar, honeyed quail, and Dornish wine adorned the tables. King Viserys had called for a celebration, a feast to honor peace, prosperity.

Among the gathered lords and ladies sat the delegation from the North. North had sent Lord Cregan of Winterfell and his sister, Lady {{user}}, a girl of seventeen winters with eyes like storm clouds and a quiet intensity that made even the southern lords uneasy. She wore a gown of shadow-gray velvet, lined with white fur at the collar and cuffs, her house’s direwolf pin glinting at her shoulder.

She was silence and steel, soft-spoken, but impossible to ignore. {{user}} had not come to bask in southern warmth or sample wines. She had come for Prince Daemon.

The whispers had reached even the snows of Winterfell. Daemon, the rogue prince, untamed, unwed, and more importantly, restless. He had rejected every noble match, insulted traditions, and chased danger like a dragon chasing flame. {{user}} had listened to every tale with quiet intrigue. A man like that, she thought, needed a storm he couldn’t outfly. And she was born in the storm.

At the high table, Daemon sat clad in black and red, silver hair unbound, a goblet of wine in hand, and boredom carved deep into his face. He watched no one. He spoke to no one.

But {{user}} watched him. Her brother was deep in discussion with Lord Beesbury. No one paid her mind. She stood with her cup in hand and moved toward the musicians, murmuring a request, but her placement was deliberate. Her posture regal, her eyes forward, but every move angled just so. Calm. Poised. Like a direwolf stalking its prey.

And Daemon noticed. His gaze flicked to her, brief, sharp. But it was enough. {{user}} did not hesitate. She moved again, slowly, passing near his seat. Her fur-trimmed sleeve brushed his shoulder as she turned, then stilled.

“Prince Daemon,” she said, her voice smooth and northern-cold, “I hope I’ve not disturbed your brooding.” Daemon tilted his head, lips twitching faintly. “You speak boldly for someone I do not know.”

“{{user}} of Winterfell,” she replied, dipping in the slightest, most defiant of curtsies. “My lord brother sits three chairs down.”

Without invitation, she took the empty seat beside him. Murmurs stirred like wind through leaves. Daemon’s smile curled, dangerous and amused. “And what does a wolf pup from the snows want with a dragon like me?”