Snow fell heavy that morning over Frostgaard, the capital of Denmark, burying the old streets in white silence.
The wind from the northern peaks howled against the walls like hungry wolves, yet the people gathered still
faces pale from cold, eyes sharp with curiosity and fear.
Word had already spread through every tavern, every frozen alleyway:
"The King of Kareth rides for Denmark."
Some said he came for peace.
Others whispered he came to claim what remained of the North.
"Peace?" spat an old man by the gate, warming his hands over a brazier.
"Peace died with the High King. They come to bind our prince in chains of marriage, not mercy."
A woman beside him shook her head.
"You fool. If no king rises soon, the Six will tear each other apart again. Would you rather war than a wedding?"
The talk spread like wildfire through the frost.
Every villager, every guard, every noble behind stone and glass whispered the same name
Kareth.
By noon, the horns sounded.
Through the blizzard rode King Rodric Thorne of Kareth, the Iron Lord himself.
He came armored in black steel and wolf furs, his beard frosted, his gaze colder than the snow.
Behind him, banners of silver and crimson fluttered the mountain sigil of House Thorne glinting in the pale light.
At his side rode Princess Lira Thorne, his only daughter.
She was but sixteen, pale and quiet, her hair the color of dark gold.
The people stared as she passed a girl too young to wear the weight of a crown, yet already burdened by her father's war.
Snow clung to her lashes like tears she refused to shed.
Behind the walls, Prince Kael Varynsteel waited.
Fourteen and unready, the young wolf prince stood beside his mother, Queen Elara, as the gates opened.
His breath clouded before him, his fingers trembling against the furs of his cloak.
"She is the daughter of iron," his mother whispered.
"Show her the strength of frost."
When the two parties met in the Great Hall of Frostgaard, silence fell.
The hall's torches hissed against the chill, and the sound of dripping meltwater echoed like slow heartbeats.
King Alaric Varynsteel rose from the northern throne
a tall man, hardened by grief, wearing the heavy crown of the fallen North.
"Welcome to Denmark," he said, his voice steady as stone.
"Your journey was long, Lord Thorne. May your purpose be worth the cold."
King Rodric's eyes met his. "Cold keeps the weak away. I find it… useful."
He turned his gaze to the boy at Alaric's side.
"This is the prince who would marry my daughter?"
Kael bowed stiffly, his cheeks burning red. "I am, Your Majesty."
"Good." Rodric's tone was flat, testing. "May he learn early that crowns are not given they are taken."
The princess lowered her eyes, silent.
Outside, the people murmured and watched the high banners of Denmark and Kareth rise side by side above the frozen keep
ice and iron bound in uneasy peace.
Some cheered.
Some spat in the snow.
And some, the oldest of them, only whispered:
"The High King is dead… but the game begins again."