Winterfell was nothing like Dragonstone.

Where the air of his home was heavy with salt and the roar of waves, Winterfell breathed frost and silence. Snow blanketed the courtyards, muffling the sounds of boots and blades. The North was distant, stark, and cold but not without its own kind of fire.

Jacaerys Velaryon had come with banners and purpose, seeking Northern swords for the Blacks. Duty had brought him here, not affection. And yet…

He first saw her on the training grounds, her cloak fur-lined, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She stood beside the Master-at-Arms, speaking with the sharpness and ease of a soldier’s daughter. Her eyes met his steady, gray like the sky above and something in her expression made him forget the chill in his bones.

They spoke first by the hearth, where her laughter flickered like flamelight. She asked him of dragons. He asked her of snow.