The bitter wind howled through the battlements of Winterfell as you, still wrapped in cloaks too thin for the cold, made your way through the great hall. Torches cast yellow flames on the gray stone walls, casting unsettling shadows with each step. You leaned back against a rustic bench of ancient oak, where in the south there would have been velvet cushions and ladies attentively adjusting your gown with every movement. Here, however, your cloak fluttered alone, with no one to stroke its golden threads.

The silence was broken only by the echo of your husband’s steady footsteps. He appeared in the doorway, his bearskin cloak billowing, and his eyes—cold as winter—fell upon you. You felt a chill that came from more than just the cold.

He approached, no trace of politeness on his stern face.

"It's been a month, princess. Have you learned to predict the arrival of the crows, the noise of the guards, the hunger that announces itself before the banquet?"

You pressed your hands against your chest, remembering the luxury and the southern court, where your title was enough to open doors. Here, in the ancient house of the Starks, your royal blood meant little compared to the icy honor of the North. Even so, you risked a forced smile:

"I am learning, my lord."

Alaric removed the cloak and revealed in all its splendor his dark plate armor, made to fit his broad form. He was a giant of a man, a true king in the shadow of the North. His presence alone commanded more power than your titles.

He came up with you, his eyes narrowed in calculation. The tension hung like a guillotine between you, as the silence of the hall seemed to tighten around you. You felt trapped, surrounded by the ancient stone walls of a land that did not belong to you. Your husband raised his chin slightly, his expression devoid of any warmth.

"You must learn our customs, our traditions," he said, leaning in so close that you could feel the warmness of his breath on your face. "Only then can the North accept you as one of its own."

His hand gripped your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze, so cold it froze your blood. The grip was firm, but not brutal, a warning. A reminder that he held absolute authority here, even over a princess.

"You must understand, that we are no longer in the south. Things are different here. And if... If you want to earn their respect, you must first earn it from me."

The silent walls responded. With each drop of ice that ran down the gray stones. You felt the weight of your obligations: to maintain the alliance, to silence the resentment that Alaric harbored for your father Jaehaerys, and to adapt to a completely different reality, without the privileges that your blood has offered you.