The long procession traveled slowly through the snow-clad pines of the North, each carriage gleaming with frost beneath the pale northern sun. The breath of men and horses rose in ghostly plumes, and the creak of wheels on frozen ground echoed like breaking glass.
King Rhaegar Targaryen drew back the curtain of his carriage and gazed upon the endless white expanse before him. The silver of his hair gleamed faintly in the dim light, and even beneath the thick fur mantle that wrapped his shoulders, his lips were touched by cold.
Beside him, Prince Aegon, barely seven, huddled beneath his cloak but tried to look brave. "Father," he said through chattering teeth, "does it ever grow warm here?"
Rhaegar smiled faintly. "The North is a land that remembers, my son. Even its summers are touched by winter's breath. But these people are born of the frost—they carry fire not in their hearths, but in their hearts."
Across from them, Princess Daenerys sneezed loudly, rubbing her nose on the fur of her sleeve. "I think my fire's gone out," she muttered.
Rhaegar chuckled softly and drew the cloak tighter around his sister. "Endure, my sister. It builds strength."
In the next carriage, Prince Oberyn Martell sat glowering, wrapped in layer after layer of fur that made him look more bear than man. His nose was red, his teeth chattered uncontrollably, and the glint of his famous confidence was long gone.
"Seven hells," he muttered, his breath fogging the air. "Who in their right mind chooses to live in such a place? Even the wine freezes before it touches your lips!"
Across from him, Elia Martell, serene despite the cold, smirked behind her wool scarf. "I warned you, brother. You should have brought thicker cloaks rather than your Dornish silks."
Oberyn shot her a glare. "My silks have faced sun and sandstorms. This—" He waved his gloved hand at the window, where snow whipped violently against the glass. "—this is unnatural."
Elia laughed softly, her dark eyes glimmering. "You mock the North too freely. Look around, Oberyn — it bends to no one, not even to dragons. That is why the Targaryens respected it."
"Respected?" he scoffed. "They conquered it."
"No," came a quiet voice. It was Rhaenys, curled up beside her mother, clutching a small wolf-carved doll given to her by a Northern merchant. "Father says the North was never conquered. The dragons only asked for their loyalty."
Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "Then these Starks are prouder than I thought."
"They are," Elia said softly. "And one of them, if you recall, made quite the impression on your king."
At that, Oberyn grinned through his frostbitten misery. "Ah, the wolf-maid Lyanna. The songs of her beauty even reached Sunspear?"
Elia's smile faltered.
He leaned back, smirk fading as he rubbed his hands near a small brazier set into the carriage wall. "A jest, nothing more. But I would still trade every bit of this cursed snow for one Dornish sunrise."
Outside, the royal escort trudged on — knights of the Kingsguard in heavy white cloaks, now dulled gray by frost. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, rode at the front, his breath forming clouds as he scanned the horizon. Beside him, Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Gerold Hightower rode in silence, their armor hidden beneath layers of wool and fur.
Arthur turned slightly, calling to a squire riding behind him. "Viserys! Keep your cloak fastened or the cold will kill you before I can train you into a proper knight."
Viserys puffed indignantly. "I am wearing it properly!"
Arthur's laugh echoed through the cold air. "If you say so, little prince."
As the hours passed, Rhaegar's thoughts turned inward. His fingers traced the sigil on his cloak—a three-headed dragon, crimson against black.
Lyanna Stark.
Her name had been little more than a ghost these last years, yet it clung to him like a melody unfinished. He had denied all rumors before his wife, denied them even to himself, but the sight of Winterfell's towers rising faintly on the horizon made his pulse quicken.
Was she truly there, as they said? The wolf-maid who had once laughed beneath the weirwood trees and vanished from history's grasp?
Aegon's voice broke through his reverie. "You're quiet, father."
He looked up. "Simply thinking."
"Of what?"
"The North," he said quickly. "Its endurance. Its… strength."
Behind the royal carriage, young Aegon peeked out the window, eyes wide as he saw the massive wooden gates open slowly, creaking under their own weight.
He turned to Arthur Dayne, who rode alongside. "Ser Arthur, do you think the wolves will like us?"
Arthur smiled. "The wolves of the North respect those who carry honor, my prince. Be brave, and they will remember you kindly."
Aegon grinned, then pressed his gloved hand to the window as the first flakes of new snow fell upon his palm.
Far behind, Oberyn Martell groaned as his carriage jolted over a frozen rut. "If I survive this gods-forsaken land," he muttered, "I'll build a tavern called The Frozen Viper and never leave it again."
Elia only laughed softly, gazing out at the approaching fortress. "And yet, brother, I think this land will leave a mark on us all — whether we wish it or not."
Sir Gerold Hightower, the White Bull of the Kingsguard, had faced battlefields drenched in blood, the heat of dragonfire, and the burning sands of Dorne — yet nothing in all his years had prepared him for the merciless bite of northern cold.
The wind howled like a living beast, clawing through his armor and furs until his very bones ached. Snow crusted his white cloak, turning it to iron, and the frost clung to his beard as if determined to claim it for the North itself.
"Seven hells," Gerold muttered through chattering teeth, his breath fogging before his visor. "If I ever see a snowflake again after this, I'll strike it down with my sword."
Riding beside him, Ser Arthur Dayne gave a soft laugh, the sound muffled beneath his scarf. "You wanted to see the North, Ser Gerold. Consider your wish granted."
"Aye," Hightower grumbled. "And I curse my own foolishness for it. When I said I'd never been to Winterfell, I didn't mean I wanted to freeze to death in its shadow."
Arthur's smile lingered in his voice. "The cold teaches patience, my friend. The Northerners endure worse each day of their lives."
Gerold glared through the veil of falling snow. "Patience? I've had patience since the King Aerys started talking to his own flames. I should have stayed in King's Landing, guarding the Queen Mother, where the only chill comes from her tongue."
Arthur's horse snorted as if in laughter.
"Did you truly trade duties with Ser Barristan Selmy?" Arthur asked, shaking his cloak free of snow.
Gerold groaned. "Aye. And may the gods forgive me for that decision."
He tugged his reins tighter as the path dipped, and the hooves of his steed crunched over frozen earth. "Barristan was against it, of course. Said the King's safety comes before all else, and that he would not have me riding into the cold while he sat idle in the Red Keep."
Arthur's voice carried a hint of amusement. "He nearly worships his duty. I imagine convincing him was no easy task."
"Easy?" Gerold snorted. "I had to go to His Grace himself. The King gave a direct command that Barristan remain behind, to protect Queen Mother Rhaella. Otherwise, the old knight would've followed the royal carriage all the way into the snowdrifts."
Arthur smiled faintly. "And now you regret it."
"Regret?" Hightower's teeth clattered as he spoke. "I'd rather face ten Dornish spears than one more northern wind."
Ahead, the line of riders began to slow as the trees grew thinner. The faint orange glow of torches shimmered through the falling snow. The air smelled of pine smoke and roasted meat.
Arthur drew his horse to a halt beside Rhaegar's carriage and raised his hand. "Your Grace," he called, his voice steady against the wind, "we're nearing Wintertown. Two miles, perhaps three, no more. The town's inns and halls are large enough to shelter the party should you wish to rest before the final approach."
The curtain of the carriage stirred, and Prince Aegon's pale face appeared, framed by the silver of his hair. "You've been here before, Ser Arthur?"
"I have, My Prince," Arthur replied. "Years ago, I escorted Prince Lewyn Martell when he journeyed north to speak with Lord Rickard Stark. The town lies at the base of Winterfell's hill — small, but proud."
A murmur rippled through the knights nearby. None had known Arthur had ever come this far north.
"Then your counsel will be heeded," King Rhaegar spoke. "We'll rest there before climbing to the castle."
As the carriages rolled on, Gerold rode alongside Arthur once more, shaking snow from his gauntlets. "I don't recall hearing that tale, Dayne. You're a man of surprises."
Arthur's lips curved slightly beneath his hood. "There was little to tell. I met Lord Rickard and his children. The young ones were bold—especially Lyanna."
Gerold gave a low grunt. "Ah, the wolf-maid. The one who stole half the realm's songs."
Arthur did not answer. His violet eyes drifted toward the horizon, where faint towers rose against the gray sky.
Gerold followed his gaze and sighed. "You knew, didn't you? You knew what awaited us here."
Arthur's tone softened. "I knew only that the North remembers, Ser Gerold. And that memory may prove colder than the wind."
The wind shifted as they descended the slope, carrying the distant sound of hammers and bells. Men cheered faintly at the sight.
Even Oberyn Martell's voice rose from one of the carriages: "At last! Civilization, or at least the northern version of it!"
Gerold Hightower let out a breath that turned to mist. "A roof, a fire, and a cup of hot wine. Gods be good, I'll never mock the North again… at least until we leave it."
Arthur smirked. "Hold to that promise, Ser Gerold. Winter hears all insults."
The air in Wintertown was thick with mist and wood smoke when the peace was suddenly shattered by the sound of a sharp thud.
The royal carriage jolted to a halt. Horses neighed and reared, guards drew swords with the hiss of steel, and shouts rang out through the chill.
"Protect the King!" cried Ser Gerold Hightower, his voice booming over the clamor as he spurred his horse forward. "Shields around the carriage! Archers to the left flank!"
Within seconds, the King's guards surrounded the gilded wagon where King Rhaegar Targaryen sat with Prince Aegon and Princess Daenerys. The driver froze mid-breath, eyes darting to the strange object lying in the snow ahead.
Arthur Dayne, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of Dawn, swung down from his horse. His silver cloak brushed against the frost as he bent to pick up what had struck the royal carriage.
It wasn't a stone or a weapon.
It was a perfectly round sphere of tanned leather, worn smooth and stitched tightly by skilled hands. Arthur turned it over curiously, his brow furrowed.
"What in the Seven Hells is this?" muttered Ser Oswell Whent, peering over his shoulder.
Arthur rolled the object in his gloved palms. "It's… soft. Weighted, and hollow. No weapon I've ever seen."
"Could be some sort of explosive," Hightower warned, still gripping his sword.
Arthur's violet eyes flicked up, amused. "Then it's a very poorly designed one."
The royal carriage door creaked open.
King Rhaegar Targaryen stepped down into the snow, his cloak gleaming white beneath his fur mantle. His silver hair caught the dim light as he approached Arthur. Aegon and Daenerys followed close behind, the boy prince clinging to his father's arm while little Daenerys peeked curiously from beneath her hood.
"What happened?" Rhaegar asked quietly. "Are we under attack?"
Arthur knelt and offered the ball to him. "No, Your Grace."
A boy came sprinting through the snow, boots kicking up powder, his cheeks flushed red from the cold. He couldn't have been more than five or six, though he carried himself with the confidence of someone twice his age. His cloak trailed behind him like a banner, and his eyes — brilliant green, full of mischief and energy — shone like polished jade.
He skidded to a halt before the ring of armored knights and blinked at the sight of so many drawn swords.
"Oh," he said innocently, "did I hit something?"
Author's Note:
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