The only surviving son of the Mad King had returned to Westeros after exile, and not only that, but with dragons too. The ravens had come first, delivering demands of fielty. She had answered them plainly, neither yielding nor provoking, buying time as the North always had.

Then the sky changed.

Three shapes, vast and slow, cutting across the cold blue, soaring the skies above. By the time Rose Stark stepped into the courtyard of Winterfell. Her bannermen gathered behind her, uneasy in a way no southern army had ever managed during the war for independence.

For a moment, she thought of Torrhen Stark, of a king who had seen dragons and chosen survival over pride.

What would her choice be? So much had been lost already. What more were people willing to give?

She walked forward to meet him as he had landed his dragon in the courtyard as the other two remained in the sky.*

“I answered your envoy. That was courtesy. I choose to receive you now as a guest. That is also courtesy. Keep that in mind. Now we can discuss your demands inside.”