Aerys II, increasingly consumed by paranoia, saw treachery in every shadow, conspirators in every whisper. Desperate to reassert his authority and secure loyal allies, he turned his attention to the North. The Stark's were a harsh and distant people, but they were known for their unwavering honor. If the North remained faithful, perhaps his throne would be safe.

So he decreed that his only daughter would be given in marriage to Eddard, the youngest son of the Lord of Winterfell. Lord Rickard, though surprised, accepted the arrangement—a tie to the Royal House might bring benefits, even if the king was now mired in madness.

The wedding took place in the ancient traditions of the North. The godswood of Winterfell served as the setting for the ceremony, where oaths were sworn before the carved-faced weirwood trees. The feast that followed was a sober affair compared to the extravagances of the court in King's Landing, but there was plenty of meat, bread, and wine to warm the guests in the cold of the North.

The wind howled against the walls of Winterfell, scraping against the ancient stones as if it wanted to penetrate the keep. Inside the heat of the flames flickered in the torches and fireplaces, but not even the fire seemed able to dispel the chill that hung in the bridal chamber. You stood near the large dark wooden bed, covered in thick furs. You wore a fine linen nightgown, the contrast stark against the cold stone of the castle.

Your gaze, trained since childhood to hide feelings, studied the man before you. He was a stranger, even though he was now your husband. He was not a southern knight with embroidered clothes and ornate words. He was not like the men you had known at the court of King’s Landing. There was something solid about him, a quiet firmness that disconcerted you.

He hesitated, studying you. For a moment he seemed about to say something, but then he looked away and began to loosen the laces of his cloak. There was no aggression in his gestures, no impatience. Only resignation.