TYRION
The Great Hall of Winterfell roared with the sound of merriment—if one could call the strained collision of Northern solemnity and Southern excess "merry." The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, woodsmoke, and something else beneath it all—subtle spices from the far East that Tyrion couldn't name but recognized as distinctly foreign to this ancient stronghold. Even the stones seemed confused by their presence.
Tyrion swirled the wine in his cup. He'd claimed a corner of the high table that afforded him an excellent view while rendering him nearly invisible to those who mattered—or thought they did. The perfect vantage point from which to enjoy what was proving to be the most interesting diplomatic theater he'd witnessed in years.
His dear sister was not having a pleasant evening.
Cersei sat beside the King, her golden beauty polished to a hard gleam, smile fixed with the rigidity of castle mortar. The source of her discomfort sat just four places away—Princess Ruyan of Yi Ti, whose mere presence had transformed what should have been a routine royal visit into something far more complex.
His sister wasn't used to losing ground — not to courtiers, not to queens, and certainly not to foreign women who made elegance look effortless and diplomacy look like bloodsport.
The princess was a study in calculated precision. Her gown—some impossibly fine silk in white and silver—made Cersei's Lannister crimson look garish by comparison. Where Cersei wore power like armor, announcing itself with every golden lion and ruby accent, Ruyan's status was implicit in the quality of her clothing, the carriage of her body, the perfect economy of her movements. Hers was the confidence of someone who had never needed to prove herself to lesser nobility.
For once, Tyrion Lannister did not mind being ignored. Watching Cersei squirm in brocade beside the Princess of Yi Ti was worth every mile of northern road.
"Another cup, Lord Tyrion?"
He turned to find a steward at his elbow, holding a flagon of what appeared to be the same Northern red he'd been drinking.
"I'd sooner drink horse piss," he replied cheerfully. "But as none is available, this will have to do."
The steward blinked, clearly uncertain how to respond, then filled his cup and retreated. Tyrion returned his attention to the royal dais, where his sister was attempting—and failing—to engage Princess Ruyan in conversation.
"Such... distinctive customs you've brought to Winterfell," Cersei was saying, her voice pitched to carry just the right distance. "Though I imagine you must find our ways terribly primitive by comparison."
Ruyan's reply was measured, her accent lending a musical quality to her words. "Tradition and innovation need not be enemies, Your Grace. The North understands this better than most."
"Indeed?" Cersei's smile sharpened. "And what innovations have you found most... necessary to implement?"
"Those that preserve life," Ruyan answered simply. "The rest follows naturally."
Such a benign response, yet Tyrion watched his sister stiffen as if slapped. The implication was clear enough—the princess had brought healing knowledge, better food production, practical improvements. Not trinkets, not ornaments, not the pretty baubles of a pampered royal, but substantive changes that improved Northern lives. Changes that would be remembered long after the royal visit was forgotten.
Cersei's hand tightened around her goblet, knuckles whitening. "How charitable of you," she said, her smile never reaching her eyes.
Ruyan inclined her head in acknowledgment, neither accepting the barb nor returning it. She then turned her attention to Lord Stark, effortlessly redirecting the conversation to safer waters while leaving Cersei effectively dismissed.
Tyrion sipped his wine, savoring both its mediocre flavors and the exquisite discomfort playing out before him. How rarely one got to witness his sister at such a disadvantage.
His gaze drifted to where his nephew sat among the younger nobility. Joffrey was making a show of courtly charm, his golden curls catching the firelight, his smile practiced and princely. But Tyrion had long ago learned to read the boy's eyes, and tonight they were fixed with unsettling intensity on Sansa Stark.
The girl was a beauty, there was no denying it—auburn hair, fine features, emerging from childhood like a butterfly from its chrysalis. She sat beside a young man Tyrion had identified as Domeric Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort. The two made a striking pair, both composed and attentive, exchanging occasional words with the easy familiarity of an established understanding.
So that's the match, Tyrion thought. The Stark beauty and the Bolton heir. Ned Stark plays a deeper game than Father gives him credit for.
Joffrey's expression as he watched them confirmed what Tyrion had suspected since their arrival—his nephew wanted what he couldn't have, precisely because he couldn't have it. The Northern beauty was already promised elsewhere, and no amount of royal privilege would undo a betrothal already sanctified before a heart tree.
Farther down the table sat the younger Stark girl—Arya, if he recalled correctly—fidgeting in a dress that clearly offended her sensibilities. She kept glancing toward one of the lower tables where several Yi Tish girls sat, their exotic features and elaborate hairstyles marking them as clearly as banners. One caught Arya's eye and made a subtle gesture. The Stark girl grinned, replying with what appeared to be a passable attempt at a Yi Tish hand sign.
Fascinating, Tyrion mused. The wolf pup speaks the tiger's tongue.
These girls were not merely attendants or decorative companions—they were seeds, strategically planted. In five years, in ten, their roots would run deep through Northern soil. Already, their presence had shifted the hall's center of gravity. Young Northern ladies were drifting toward their table, drawn by curiosity and the allure of something new. He heard laughter, saw the exchange of phrases in a language neither Westerosi nor Valyrian.
The North was changing. And the princess wasn't whispering it—she was dressing it in silk and letting it pour the wine.
Near the princess stood a woman who at first glance might be taken for a handmaiden. Lihua, he had heard her called. But Tyrion noticed how her eyes moved systematically around the hall, cataloging exits, weapons, guards. How she positioned herself in perfect defensive alignment with her princess. How she'd assessed each Lannister guardsman upon their arrival, her gaze lingering on sword hands and armor clasps.
Not a maid, then. Or not merely one.
Tyrion's gaze returned to his sister, who was now speaking with Lady Stark. Cersei's smile was all courtesy, but her eyes kept straying back to Princess Ruyan with barely concealed resentment. Everything Cersei wore like a weapon, Princess Ruyan wore like air—unnoticed, but always present.
And there was something else in his sister's discomfort, a shadow that had haunted her since their arrival. Tyrion followed her gaze as it drifted to where Robert sat, already deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing through the hall as he regaled Ned Stark with hunting stories. But it wasn't the king's drunkenness that troubled Cersei—it was the ghost that stood between them, the Northern girl whose memory had poisoned their marriage from its earliest days.
Lyanna Stark. Dead seventeen years, yet her presence lingered in these halls—in the king's grief, in the fresh flowers at her tomb, in the wild look that sometimes flashed across young Arya's face when she thought no one was watching.
Winterfell had always smelled of stone and snow. Now it smelled faintly of spices Cersei couldn't pronounce. The combination clearly unsettled her, this blending of North and East into something neither could fully claim. A new thing, unpredictable and therefore dangerous.
"My lord Tyrion."
He glanced up to find Master Wei beside him, the Yi Tish scholar's expression one of polite inquiry.
"I noticed your interest in our texts during the welcoming ceremonies," Wei continued. "If you would care to visit our collection, I would be honored to serve as your guide."
Tyrion smiled. "Nothing would please me more, Master Wei. I find my education on Eastern matters woefully incomplete."
"Knowledge bridges greater distances than ships," Wei replied with a slight bow. "The princess believes you may find value in our texts. She encourages such exchange."
Has she indeed? Tyrion thought. How very... strategic of her.
"Please convey my appreciation to the princess," he said aloud. "I look forward to our discussion."
As Wei departed, Tyrion drained his cup and signaled for more wine. The night was still young, and the performance unfolding before him deserved a properly lubricated audience. This was the most entertaining shift in power Tyrion had witnessed in years, all the more delightful for happening right under his family's gilded noses. The princess from the East had moved into the North like a new season—not with conquest or demands, but with knowledge, patience, and carefully placed roots.
The royal procession had come north expecting wolves. They had found wolves with new teeth.
Tyrion raised his cup in a silent toast to Princess Ruyan, though she was engaged elsewhere and didn't see it. No matter. The game was more enjoyable when played from the shadows, and tonight, at least, he was content to watch the pieces move across the board.
Winter was coming, as the Starks were so fond of saying. But it seemed that the East had arrived first.
DOMERIC
Domeric did not watch the king. Robert Baratheon's boisterous laughter and declining sobriety were mere surface noise, the audible distraction while real power shifted elsewhere. Instead, his attention was fixed on Lord Eddard Stark, who sat in conversation with another lord.
Rumours of being the next Hand of the king—this much was known. The acceptance was inevitable, though Stark would delay it for appearance's sake. The North's honour required the pretence of reluctance.
Ned Stark would go south, and with him, the North's influence would extend into the capital for the first time in a generation. Others whispered that Starks never lingered in the South. Domeric thought this one might.
She sat beside him, formally but not intimately — close enough to speak, far enough that every word required intention. His gaze returned to Sansa. Their betrothal had been formalized barely a moon's turn before the royal raven announced the king's journey north. Had Sansa not accepted his suit early on, she might now be facing an entirely different future—one with a crown instead of the flayed man's sigil.
Did she still dream of crowns? The question lingered as he observed her controlled interactions with the royal family. She performed her courtesies flawlessly, neither too eager nor too reserved. Yet beneath that performance, he detected new awareness in her eyes—a political calculation that hadn't been present when they first met. Princess Ruyan's influence was evident in the subtle shifts in her manner, the measured responses, and the careful attention to hierarchical nuance.
Across the table, Prince Joffrey's gaze repeatedly returned to Sansa, possessive and evaluating. The boy's features arranged themselves into practiced charm whenever she looked his way, but Domeric noted how quickly they reverted to something harder when he thought himself unobserved. The prince's disinterest in Arya Stark was equally telling—his eyes sliding past her as if she were furniture, occasionally fixing her with undisguised disdain when she laughed too loudly or moved too freely.
There was calculation in that disdain. Robert Baratheon's fixation on Lyanna Stark was no secret, and the younger Stark girl's resemblance to her aunt was mentioned in hushed tones throughout Winterfell. Domeric tracked the queen's gaze as it followed her husband's attentions, noting how it hardened whenever Arya entered his field of vision. Cersei Lannister was not a woman who forgot threats, even those embodied in children.
Both Stark girls were invited to court—this much had reached him. Sansa as a lady-in-waiting to the queen, Arya, ostensibly for education in royal governance. On the surface, a diplomatic courtesy. Beneath, a clear strategy. What Robert Baratheon could not steal, he would claim through hospitality and proximity. With Sansa formally promised elsewhere, Arya became the focus of royal sentiment—not for herself, but for the ghost she resembled.
Domeric took a measured sip of wine, his expression betraying nothing of these assessments. His position was secure. That ring on her hand was not affection — it was anchor. One placed before the lion could strike.
He harboured no romantic illusions about their match. The structure mattered, not the sentiment. Their union would bind the eastern North more firmly to Winterfell and balance the foreign influence of Princess Ruyan's presence.
Sansa's training under Princess Ruyan had proven an unexpected advantage. The girl who had once filled her head with songs of knights and maidens now observed court dynamics with increasing sophistication. She remained innocent but no longer naive. When she spoke with the royal family, she measured her words with new precision.
Domeric's attention shifted to Princess Ruyan, seated beside her husband with perfect composure. The Southern nobility clearly found her unreadable, and her measured courtesy offered no opening for either alliance or offense. Queen Cersei's attempts at engagement had been met with diplomatic responses that revealed nothing while maintaining faultless protocol.
She was not here to charm them. She was here to outlast them. A wild card in the game, invisible to those who measured power only in swords and gold. The Lannisters would underestimate her, seeing only exotic aesthetics where calculated strategy operated.
Domeric maintained his vigil as the feast continued, absorbing details that others missed in their wine-soaked revelry. The structural realignment taking place would echo far beyond this single evening. Lord Stark would go south, the Stark daughters would be courted by royal attention, and the North itself would continue its measured transformation under foreign and domestic influences.
The board was shifting. New alliances formed. Old grudges found fresh expression.
Domeric caught Sansa's eye briefly across the table. She acknowledged him with a precise head inclination—neither too familiar nor too distant. It is exactly appropriate for their station and relationship. Another sign of her evolution under Ruyan's guidance.
He returned the gesture with equal precision. Their futures were intertwined now, their houses bound in an arrangement that served purposes beyond mere sentiment. What mattered was not whether they would find affection but how effectively they would navigate the turbulent waters ahead.
The flayed man and the direwolf—ancient sigils now aligned in common cause. Their children would carry both legacies, bridging centuries of careful distance between their houses.
Domeric took another sip of wine and continued his silent observation. The feast would end, and the royal party would eventually depart, but the consequences of this night would unfold for years to come. He would be ready.
The Boltons always were.