Eddard stood at the gates of Winterfell, the biting Northern wind bringing with it a discomfort that went beyond the cold. The banners of House Martell were visible in the distance, the vibrant orange and the sun pierced by a spear standing out against the gray, overcast sky. She was here. The young woman who, according to the council, would secure Dorne’s support against the Lannisters.

House Martell was not just any southern house — it was one of the oldest and proudest in Westeros. Known for its independence, its resistance to the Crown, and its fierce warriors, it had long held itself apart from the wars of the rest of the realm. That she was here, riding north through snow and silence, meant something grave. The South had chosen to act — and she was the symbol of that choice.

When the horses stopped and she dismounted with an almost ethereal grace, Eddard felt a heavier weight settle in his chest. She was beautiful, there was no denying it. Her dark skin and raven-black hair made her a striking figure, a living contrast to the pale world of Winterfell. She was so young that he had to avert his gaze, ashamed of the unease growing within him.

His mind, however, would not be silenced. He was a widower, a man marked by loss and the crushing responsibilities of rule. Now, he was to promise himself to another—a stranger—someone younger than Robb and Jon. The thought felt wrong, almost profane.

But Ned was not a man who allowed his own discomfort or desires to interfere with his sense of duty.

As she approached, flanked by her guards, her impeccable posture and steady gaze reminded him that she was no mere girl. She was a Martell, forged in the unforgiving heat of Dorne.

When he extended his hand to greet her, her eyes met his, unwavering. Then, she smiled. It was not the smile of a child but of a woman—a calculated, knowing smile.

“My lady,” Ned said, before bringing the young woman’s hand to his lips.