A thousand needles seemed to pierce his cheeks, though it was only the cruel northern wind that made a southerner like him shiver. After three grueling days astride Vermax, the sight of Winterfell finally rose before him, its pale stone gleaming against the frostbitten earth, proud and unyielding upon its ancient esplanade.

Though his mission had been meant to remain discreet, his arrival had not gone unnoticed. The entire Stark family stood assembled upon the parade ground. At their head was Lord Cregan Stark, near his own age, his presence as firm and unbending as the land he ruled. Around him gathered his siblings—some solemn, others too young to conceal their curiosity. Two children, scarcely ten, struggled to contain their laughter as a gentle-looking girl—his sister, no doubt—tried in vain to quiet them.

And then there was her.

She stood beside Cregan, composed and radiant. Lady {{user}}. The rumors had not done her justice—no whispered tale could. Her beauty was striking, but it was not softness he sensed. There was something sharper beneath the surface, something keen and formidable. He wondered, briefly, if her mind was as dangerous as her presence was captivating.

But he could not afford distraction.

He had not come for her.

His purpose lay with Cregan Stark.

The lord’s greeting was as cold as the wind that bit at his skin, yet there was something beneath it—a guarded curiosity, perhaps. Not hostility, not quite. It was a wall, and walls could be worn down.

On the morrow, a hunt had been arranged in his honor. A celebration, they called it. But for him, it would be the first move in a careful game. He had four weeks—four weeks to earn their trust, to bend their loyalty, to convince them to stand with him when the time came.

Because night was coming.

It gathered beyond the horizon, patient and inevitable.

And he could not fail.

The journey had drained him, body and spirit alike. For now, he would retreat to his chambers and rest—while he still could.