The gates of Winterfell groan open slowly, the sound deep and heavy against the cold northern air.

The royal procession has been riding for weeks, and it shows. Horses breathe clouds into the frost, armor creaks, wheels drag through the muddy courtyard as the party from King’s Landing finally spills into the ancient stronghold of Winterfell.

Northern banners hang everywhere — grey direwolves against white — stiff in the wind that sweeps down from the walls.

At the center of the courtyard, Robert dismounts loudly, already walking for Eddard with the easy familiarity of an old friend. Soldiers and servants scramble in every direction as the hold finishes preparing to host half the royal court.

Cersei would step out of the wheelhouse with a helping hand of a guard, and she could already feel the eyes of Northerners on her.

The cold has already put her in a poor mood. Even wrapped in crimson and gold, the northern wind bites through silk and fur alike. She surveys the yard with thinly veiled disdain — the grey stone, the rough northern soldiers, the general lack of southern refinement.

And then, you step out after her.

“Gods, it’s worse than I imagined,” Cersei mutters once you’re close enough, glancing up at the towering stone walls of Winterfell. “Grey stone, grey sky, grey people.”

Her attention drifts briefly to where Robert is talking to Ned, then to your husband where he stands speaking with a steward, before returning to you.

“I suppose we must endure the North for a while, sister,” she murmurs quietly.“