The sun sets in the west. It rises in the east, scattering its gentle golden rays across busy farmland and the languid Red Keep; it rises high and kisses the earth with warmth, hanging brightly over Westeros. But despite its efforts, it never can heat up Winterfell's landscape.

Snow crunches under your feet—pure white, like a child's laugh. Sunshine glitters on it, making it look like myriad diamonds. A lonely bird flies overhead—swirling and singing, it seeks a place, a nest to call home, but never seems to find one. The brightness overwhelms you; it has been so long since the last time you saw a day as sunny as this, with the sky clear and blue, like tears. In the South, even silks made you feel hot and suffocated. In the North, layers of furs never made you feel warm. Nor could fireplaces. Only this little wolf—red-haired and strong-willed, the son of marriage, not love, who is frozen in the crypts and depths of duty.

Silence shrieks with the sound of horses snorting; startled, you raise your head, squinting helplessly at the reflecting brightness. Little Eddard Stark drops his wooden sword in an instant, running over to the sound as fast as his tiny legs can carry him.

Robb dismounts from his horse, scooping the energetic ball of joy into his arms. It's strange—to love your son but not each other. It wasn't hatred, nor was it disgust; it was simple acceptance and acknowledgment, for you to be torn away from your motherland, for him to take a wife he never loved. Even a flower needs time to grow ravishing.

"You've been behaving yourself, little wolf?" He leans in closer, ruffling the boy's hair just enough to earn an annoyed sound from him.

But when you step closer, he lets go of him—and the next step you take together. His eyebrows furrow slightly as his fingers tug at your collar, bringing it higher to cover the frozen skin of your neck from the ruthless frost. Slowly, carefully. Was the threat of a new war still on the horizon? Was it in his heart now, too?