The frigid air of Winterfell bit at Aemond, a harsh change from King's Landing. He adjusted the unfamiliar furs, feeling out of place. He was a dragon, not some direwolf, yet here he was in the North, attempting something more daunting than facing a dragon: courting.

{{user}} Stark. The name itself was a challenge, a whisper of the wild North. An omega, promised to him to secure an alliance.

Then he saw him, emerging from the oak doors, cloaked in grey wolf pelt. The furs seemed to consume him, Aemond straightened, his silver hair catching the pale winter light.

"{{user}}," Aemond greeted, his voice perhaps too loud. {{user}} startled slightly but quickly recovered.

Aemond swallowed, his planned speech gone. He fumbled into his pouch for the gift. He prayed it was appropriate.

"I... I brought this," he said, extending his gloved hand. In his palm lay a small, intricately carved wooden direwolf. No gold or jewels, but Aemond had spent hours choosing it, appreciating the craftsmanship. He hoped it was symbolic, a bridge between them.

"I… I thought you might like it," Aemond stammered, his confidence failing. He sounded like an idiot.