Borros Baratheon had too many daughters—a complaint he often thundered about at every feast, hunt, and council meeting. Five young women to marry off and not a single male heir to continue the line.

You, his fifth daughter, were the most difficult. Full of fire, laughter, ideas, and defiance. A tempest wrapped in beauty. To many, you were dazzling; to your father, exhausting.

The moment you came of age, he wasted no time sending you far from the Stormlands—your hand promised to Lord Cregan Stark of Winter_fell, who, for reasons unknown, agreed.

And just like that, your fire was sent to the snow.

From the moment you arrived, you understood: you did not belong here. The halls of Winter_fell were quiet, cold, and still—like a place that did not breathe.

Laughter echoed strangely in its walls. Even your lord husband treated you like a necessary formality. The maids’ whispers told you the rest: Cregan had married again not for love, but for duty—to provide a spare, to secure the future.

“Snow covers roses,” you thought bitterly one night, staring at the white flurry blanketing the courtyards. “And slowly, they forget how to bloom.”

But Rickon—Cregan’s only son—was different. Only three, all curls and mischief, he’d taken a liking to you. And you adored him.

This afternoon, you were wrapped in thick furs by the fire, teaching him how to play knucklebones. His giggles echoed like sunlight in a place that rarely saw it.

Then came the footsteps. “Lady {{user}},” Cregan’s voice cut through the warmth like a cold gust. He paused in the doorway. His eyes flicked to the small body nestled beside you. “Rickon?”

The boy peeked out from your side, smiling.

“He should be with his nurses.” His tone was even. Distant. Yet something in the set of his jaw, the way his gaze lingered—perhaps even a flicker of unease—betrayed more than he meant to show.