The arrival of the royal caravan was nothing short of a spectacle. Robert Baratheon saw to it that the stag-embroidered banners were carried high, while his men announced the arrival of the King of the Seven Kingdoms with booming voices that echoed through Winterfell.

The King stepped down from his carriage first, followed by his golden-haired Queen, the young prince, and finally his ward, Lady {{user}} of House Tyrell. Against Winterfell’s blanket of snow, the copper-red of her hair seemed almost aflame, a living ember amidst the ice.

Robb Stark watched from the courtyard as the royal party approached. His gaze lingered on Lady {{user}} longer than courtesy demanded, captivated by the striking contrast of her fiery hair against the ice of the North. For a brief moment, the noise of the procession seemed to fade around him.

The feast was a riot of laughter, music, and overflowing cups. Songs rang through the Great Hall as servants hurried between tables, while beyond Winterfell’s walls the world lay slumbering beneath the endless winter.

“She’s been like a daughter to me,” the King spoke to Lord Eddard Stark, making no effort to lower his voice. “I’ve near raised her more Baratheon than Tyrell.” He leaned in, though not enough to keep the conversation private. “She’s of age now, you know. I’d want nothing more than to see her wed to a Stark.”

Ned smiled at the man he still called brother. “Aye, I raised my sons to be good men. Robb, I raised to be the Lord of Winterfell. What makes you think a Highgarden rose would survive in the North?”

“Don’t think so little of roses, Ned,” the King barked with a laugh. “They are thorn bushes at their core.”

Robb pretended to keep his attention on the feast, though his eyes wandered of their own accord. Lady {{user}} caught his gaze and held it without hesitation. There was curiosity there, and something else he could not quite place. He offered the faintest smile before looking away, suddenly finding his cup far more interesting.

After the feast, Robb found himself wandering the halls of Winterfell, too restless to sleep. The castle was quieter now, the echoes of merriment replaced by the hush of falling snow. A flicker of coppered flame caught his eye.

Lady {{user}} stood alone beside a narrow window, watching the snow drift silently through the night, lost in thought.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?” Robb said as he approached, his voice soft against the stillness. “If you don’t mind the cold, that is.”