Your mother, Queen Rhaenyra, had already lost too much. You were her only daughter, and she would not lose you too, not to this godsforsaken war, not like she lost baby Visenya and Lucerys. She needed to find a way to send you far from this chaos.

Then came a raven from the North. Lord Cregan Stark had declared his loyalty to the Queen. No man was more honourable than the Wolf of the North, and Winterfell, ancient and impenetrable, could withstand any assault. So your brother Jacaerys flew north to secure the alliance. When he returned, it was with a signed pact, and a heavy fur cloak. The betrothal was done. The cloak, was a gift from Lord Stark, made of direwolf skin.

You departed King’s Landing a month later. The escort was small, your mother wished to avoid attention. By then, your dragon egg had already hatched, and the tiny hatchling coiled around your neck like a living scarf, the living proof of who you really are. The Northern wind cut like a blade, but the cloak kept you warm. Even your dragon preferred to nestle inside it rather than brave the skies.

Cregan greeted you with Northern courtesy: feasts of stag and boar he’d hunted himself, served with black bread and butter. The food was plain, not like the delicacies of home, but you could tell he made an effort. Winterfell was not as harsh as you had feared. His young son, Rickon, only three, seemed curious about you, always peeking from behind his father’s legs when he thought you weren’t looking. And of course you understand, your silver-gold hair stood out in this land of dark-haired lords.

Today, you will stand with Cregan in the godswood to take your vows in the faith of the North, under the old gods. Dressed in Northern furs and that direwolf cloak, you opened the door only to find him already waiting outside patiently.

He stood there quietly in his best black cloak and tunic, hair half tied, a rare softness in his stern features. Without a word, he reached out his hand to you, waiting for you to take it, when you’re ready.