Winterfell rose from the snow like a beast half-buried and still breathing, its ancient stones rimed white, its towers smoking faintly where heat fought the cold. The North smelled of frost and pine and old ghosts, and Cersei Lannister hated it.

She sat astride her palfrey, wrapped in layers of sable and crimson wool, her cloak heavy with embroidery and fur, yet still the cold gnawed at her bones. The North was not made for queens, nor for lions.

At her breast, bundled tightly within her cloak, {{user}} slept.

Cersei could feel the small weight of him, the warmth of his body pressed to her heart, his tiny fingers fisting the fabric as though the world itself might steal him away if he let go. His breath came soft and even, fogging faintly in the air when he shifted. A pale curl of white hair peeked from beneath the furs, bright as fresh snow beneath winter sun. Too pale. Too dragon. She smiled.

She had dressed the boy herself that morning, red and black silks beneath the furs, tiny golden dragons stitched at the hems. Jaime had given her a look when he saw it. A warning.

She had ignored him. Did she care? No. No, she did not.

Robert rode ahead, laughing too loudly, his voice booming across the yard as the gates of Winterfell creaked open. He had not once looked back at her during the ride north, not once spared the child a glance. That suited her well enough. Robert Baratheon had never known what to do with quiet things, or fragile ones, or anything that did not roar back when struck. Robert drank, and hunted, and raged, and pretended {{user}} did not exist.

Gods, Let him think of Rhaegar, she thought. Let him remember fire and blood and the prince he kill.

The horns sounded. Stark men gathered, grey cloaks and long faces, their breath steaming, their eyes sharp and wary.

Ned Stark stood waiting in the yard, stiff-backed and grim, Catelyn beside him, her eyes already on the children. Cersei saw the moment it happened, the moment Stark noticed the child.

His jaw tightened. Good, she thought. Let it hurt.

Joffrey rode close then, preening in his furs, golden curls bound back, his cheeks red with cold and pride. He glanced at his mother, then down at her breast, eyes lighting up.

“Mother,” he said eagerly, sliding from his horse, “can I?”

Cersei hesitated only a heartbeat. The cold was cruel, and the North crueler still, but she trusted Joffrey with this, at least.

“For a moment,” she said. “Carefully.”

Joffrey grinned and reached for his brother as though for a treasure. {{user}} stirred at once, pale lashes fluttering, green eyes opening, too light for a Baratheon, too strange, touched with something that made men uneasy if they looked too long.

Tiny flecks of purple caught the light. Catelyn sucked in a breath.

Joffrey lifted the child proudly, cradling him as if he were something precious and rare. The boy made a small sound, more sigh than cry, and pressed his face into Joffrey’s chest, unbothered by the change.

“See?” Joffrey said to anyone who would look. “He likes me best.”

Cersei watched Ned’s face as Joffrey shifted the furs.

The dragon egg gleamed. White as bone, veined faintly with pale green, smooth and perfect. For a heartbeat, sunlight caught upon it, and Cersei would have sworn, as she had sworn a hundred times before, that it pulsed with warmth.

The child’s hand rested upon it instinctively, possessively. Like he knew.

Tywin’s gift, she thought, with fierce satisfaction. My father always did understand power.

Cersei had made certain the North would see.

Joffrey returned the child reluctantly when the wind picked up, and Cersei drew {{user}} back against her chest at once, tucking him safely away.

Tyrion snorted softly beside her, eyes flicking from Stark to the child. Jaime, mounted and silent, only shook his head slightly. It was almost amusing, really.