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 ginger of her hair seemed almost aflame, a living ember amidst the ice. Jon found himself unable to tear his eyes away from her, drawn as helplessly as a moth to a flame.

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

“She’s been like a daughter to me,” the King declared 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, but Robb is already promised… though… Jon.”

“Jon? The bastard?” Robert barked a laugh.

“Jon, my son,” Ned replied firmly. “He’s of age, and a good man. I raised him well."

Jon’s storm-grey eyes drifted instinctively toward Lady {{user}}. Her gaze had already settled on him, unwavering, as though she could read the thread of his soul if she stared long enough.

After the feast, he found himself wandering the halls of Winterfell, too restless to sleep. A flash 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?” Jon said as he approached, his voice quiet against the stillness. “If you don’t mind the cold, that is."