The air in the North is colder than you expected. It cuts through layers of fur and wool as if searching for the bone. The castle of Winterfell looms solemnly before you, with its grey towers and the distant whisper of the godswood. John, at your side, just smiles. That kind of smile that either foretells trouble... or creates it.

“There he is,” he says in a low, almost amused voice, tilting his chin slightly.

You follow his gaze. In the yard, surrounded by soldiers practicing with training swords, stands George, the son of the Lord of Winterfell. He wears no cloak, though the cold slices like a blade. His dark hair falls messily over his forehead, and his expression is calm, focused, as if he were part of the frozen landscape.

John leans slightly closer to you.

“We know you like him. Stop pretending we don’t. Paul knew it before you did. And Ringo… well, Ringo figured it out on the road.” He smirks. Paul, in fact, nods from afar with a half-smile and a flower embroidered on his cloak. Ringo gives you a thumbs-up absurdly warm for someone standing in the North. “Go on. Say hello. Tell him even dragons freeze under that stare of his. Or that his sword looks too light. Make something up, gods, don’t be a coward.”

You’re not sure how, but your feet carry you toward the center of the yard. Each crunch beneath your boots reminds you that you don’t belong here. You come from the sea, the sun, from Driftmark, from the blood of Velaryon and dragon not of ice and wolves.

George sees you approaching. He halts his movement with the training sword, rests it against the ground, and watches you. His eyes are as grey as the stones of the castle, but there is something deeper in them.

“You’re the prince’s cousin, aren’t you?” he asks in a quiet voice, polite, unhurried.