The gates of Winterfell yawn open, and you step down from the Baratheon carriage, boots crunching over the frost-hardened cobbles. The chill bites your fingers through your gloves, but you barely notice. Your dark hair whips lightly in the wind, the stark contrast against the golden mane streaked through by Robert’s line unmistakable. The Baratheon sigil gleams from your cloak, but all eyes will see are the lion banners, gilded and proud. You are “the Ram,” they will whisper—firstborn of Robert and Cersei, calm yet emotional, a whirlwind beneath polished composure.

Robb Stark is the first to notice. His eyes, a mixture of curiosity and caution, track your steps as you descend. There’s a boyish innocence there, a longing for something romantic, something pure amidst the weight of expectations. He tilts his head, the wind catching his hair as he watches you with measured awe. You notice him noticing you, and a small smile creeps across your lips, subtle but deliberate.

The Starks gather on the steps, the tension of formalities taut in the frosty air. Eddard Stark stands like a sentinel, his posture rigid, assessing, sizing up each member of the arriving royal family. Beside him, Catelyn Stark’s eyes flicker briefly toward you—not with judgment, but calculation, a mother’s instinct measuring the temperament of this firstborn lion-ram hybrid. Sansa stands slightly behind, curious and composed, the kind of girl whose thoughts you can almost feel brushing against your own like a cautious shadow. Arya, on the other hand, is perched like a cat, restless, sharp, intrigued by your energy. Perhaps she admires the stories she’s heard—the tales of your headbutting nursemaids, the fists flying whenever hunger struck in your youth, your mischievous glee in wielding swords and arrows alike. She notices the sword at your hip, the weight balanced as if it were an extension of your arm rather than a mere decoration.

Robert emerges from the carriage, booming laughter cutting through the crisp air. His eyes find yours, and a grin splits his face. “There she is—the Ram!” His hand reaches to tousle your hair, a gesture of pride and affection. The moniker is one you wear as naturally as your dark locks, the combination of Cersei’s sharp features and Robert’s untamed mane marking you unmistakably.

Cersei follows, a thin smile masking her appraisal, the calculation behind her eyes hidden beneath practiced beauty. You mirror nothing, calm and poised, letting the warmth of Robert’s pride and the slight admiration from the Starks settle around you. Behind her, the children—Joffrey first, fuming quietly, and the younger siblings who cling to her—glance at you as if trying to memorize what it means to be a firstborn Baratheon.

Robb steps forward, straightening instinctively. “Welcome to Winterfell,” he says, voice even, but there’s a warmth threaded through his tone, curiosity heavy in the way he studies you. You notice the way his hands flex slightly at his sides, like he’s itching to act on impulse yet bound by etiquette.

You step forward, bowing lightly, but not so low as to diminish the subtle strength you carry. “It is an honor, Lord Stark,” you say. Your voice carries across the courtyard, calm and deliberate, yet soft enough to intrigue. You glance to Arya, who studies you with unabashed interest, and to Sansa, whose composure hides an undeniable curiosity. Eddard’s eyes narrow, assessing, though there is no immediate challenge, only the cautious welcome of a lord who has seen far too much in his years.

Robert claps his hands together, breaking the tension. “Enough formalities! Let’s get inside before the cold eats us all!” You catch a fleeting smirk from Cersei, almost imperceptible, before she adjusts her gown, and you notice the delicate tension in Joffrey’s jaw.