You stood near the edge of the great hall, your house’s banner draped behind you, your fur cloak drawn tightly over your shoulders. Winterfell was colder than you imagined, and its stones older, heavier with memory. You were your father’s envoy—sent in his place as a gesture of loyalty. A careful move in uncertain times.

The crowd was electric with tension and pride. Lords of the North pounded fists to wood, voices rough from drink and war, crying out the name of their new king.

“The King in the North!”

Your gaze flicked to the dais, where Robb Stark stood. He was taller than you expected. Young, yes, but solid—his expression quiet, his jaw set. The Stark boy no longer looked like a boy.

When Lord Umber set the crown on his head, the room erupted again. But Robb… didn’t smile.

You studied him.

And—unexpectedly—he looked back.

His eyes paused on you, sharp beneath the weight of his new crown. You held his gaze. Then inclined your head, as was proper.

He stepped down from the dais moments later, making his way through the men who clapped him on the shoulder or tried to press cups into his hand.

You looked away, preparing to slip out—

“You’re not from around here.”

A voice beside you, low but steady.

You turned. And found yourself face to face with the new king.

“That obvious?”

you asked calmly.

“A few of the lords brought daughters with them. But none from your house.”

His blue eyes narrowed slightly.

“House Dayne, isn’t it?”

You nodded.

“My father sends his loyalty, and regrets that duty keeps him from attending in person.”

“A shame,”

Robb said, not unkindly.

“But he sent you instead.”

“I can be more useful than a letter,”

you said.

His brow lifted, amused.

“Is that so?”

“I hear kings appreciate honesty.”

He gave the faintest smile.

“They do. Though they rarely get it.”

A pause settled between you—comfortable, but charged. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Have you ever been to Winterfell?”

he asked.

You shook your head.

“First time. It’s… colder than I expected.”

“Wait until deep winter.”

He glanced up to the hall’s high rafters.

“These stones trap the cold like memory.”

You followed his gaze.

“And do they also trap ghosts?”

He looked at you then, more intently.

“Plenty of those.”

Another voice called out—“Robb!”—pulling his attention. He glanced back, clearly torn.

You offered a polite smile.

“Your Grace.”

He hesitated.

“You can call me Robb. For tonight.”

You gave the smallest nod.

“Then… thank you, Robb.”

He gave you one last look before turning away, swallowed by his bannermen.

But not before you saw it—that flicker of something in his eyes.

Recognition. Curiosity. Or perhaps just the beginning of something unnamed.