Chapter One: Winterfell

Willam glanced through the open doorway, waiting a moment to make certain no servants or stewards lingered in the corridor beyond. The castle had become a hive since the news of the royal progress arrived. Every hallway seemed crowded with people carrying armfuls of linen, hauling barrels of wine, or gossiping about the Princes, something Elaenora refused to do… in the presence of anyone other than her brothers.

Satisfied they were alone, Willam eased the door shut and turned back toward Elaenora.

‘Well,’ he muttered, lowering his voice as though he were about to reveal a state secret, ‘I heard Prince Aerion killed one of Lord Runceford’s bitches because it pissed on his shoe.’

Elaenora let out a derisive snort.

She stood at the foot of the bed that would soon belong to Prince Baelor, smoothing a thick woollen blanket across the mattress. The coverlet had already been straightened twice, but keeping her hands busy gave her something to do while the entire castle tied itself into knots.

‘Dogs know that kind of stuff about a person,’ she said. She then jabbed a finger into Willam’s shoulder as she passed, earning a grin from him. ‘I heard Prince Daeron drank Lord Runceford dry of all the Arbor wine in the south.’

Willam barked a laugh and muttered, ‘Gods, the Redwynes don’t have much luck with the princes, do they?’ 

He wandered toward a writing desk, picking up a quill and inspecting the feather as though judging its quality before carelessly tossing it back into the holder.

‘Think they’ll drink us out of stock?’

Elaenora folded back one corner of the blanket, scrutinising it for imperfections before giving it a sharp tug and musing, ‘I think they’ll try.’

Willam laughed again, louder this time, but Elaenora wasn’t joking.

Every tale she had heard about the royal party painted the same picture. Prince Daeron left empty wine cellars wherever he travelled. Prince Aerion left frightened servants and bruised pride behind him. Even Prince Baelor, the best of them by all accounts, brought an entourage large enough to devour a castle’s stores in a fortnight, stressing out Lords and Ladies throughout the realm. 

Aside from the Starks, the rest of Winterfell seemed excited, at least. 

Elaenora and Willam finished their work not long after their chatter; after all, there was only so much arranging one could do before a room was simply a room again.

Willam gave the blanket one final tug, then stepped back to proudly inspect the bed. 

‘There,’ he declared. ‘If Prince Baelor finds fault with that, he can make his own bed.’

Elaenora rolled her eyes.

The chamber looked fine. Better than fine, in truth. It was the nicest it had ever looked. 

Fresh rushes had been laid across the floor. The hearth had been swept clean and stacked with dry wood. New candles sat waiting in their holders. The linens smelled faintly of perfume, and the shutters had been opened just enough to allow the afternoon light to spill across the stone floor.

But for a prince who spent most of his life in palaces, it was likely still drab.

Willam stretched his arms above his head until his shoulders cracked, then yawned and exclaimed, ‘We’re done!’ 

The moment one task ended, another would inevitably appear, that much Elaenora knew. Sure enough, a shadow crossed the doorway, and a sigh left her lips before she could stop it. 

‘You two.’

Beron stood outside the chamber, broad-shouldered and stern-faced. He looked exhausted, and rightfully so. For the past fortnight, Winterfell had been preparing, and Beron looked as though he had aged five years in that same span.

‘Gods preserve us,’ Willam muttered. ‘Look at him. That’s the face of a man about to give us more work.’

‘What are you talking about? I notice nothing out of the ordinary.’

Beron fixed them both with a look and mused, ‘Would either of you like to repeat yourselves?’

‘No, Father,’ they answered together.

His expression suggested he’d heard every word regardless. He stepped into the room, casting a glance around as he asked, ‘This finished?’ He didn’t sound impressed by any means.

‘Unless Prince Baelor intends to inspect the dust beneath the bed,’ Willam said, placing his hands on his hips.

Beron ignored him and turned to Elaenora, who was rolling her eyes. 

‘Aye,’ Elaenora answered. ‘It's ready.’

‘Good. Then I need you both elsewhere.’

Willam sighed loudly, earning a disgusted look from Elaenora. 

‘The castle is short-handed, you know this,’ Beron said, giving his son a stern look. ‘Prince Maekar’s chamber isn’t ready.’

‘Not ready?’ Elaenora asked. ‘How? I- I know you just said we’re short of staff, but…’ 

‘Because half the servants are helping in the Great Hall, the other half are preparing guest quarters, and the remainder seem determined to run in circles, accomplishing nothing. Therefore, you’ll finish Prince Maekar’s room.’

‘Why us?’

‘Because I know you’ll actually do it.’

Unfortunately, neither of them could argue with that.

‘Can’t Mel do it?’ Willam asked. 

Elaenora glared at him and asked, ‘You’d make your pregnant wife do your chores? Gods! You are a terrible husband.’ 

‘I didn’t say—‘

Beron had already turned toward the door as he called over the top of them, ‘The chamber is in the east tower! Hurry up with it.’ 

Before he could say something smart and get them both into trouble, Elaenora shoved Willam toward the doorway after their father, muttering, ‘Hurry up.’

Willam stumbled forward, glancing at their father as he turned to the left and they went right. 

He called, ‘You see this? She’s violent!’ He gestured to Elaenora’s tight grip on his arm. 

‘She knows how to get things done. She’s efficient.’

‘A terrible thing in a woman—efficiency.’

Elaenora reached up with her other hand and smacked the back of his head, causing him to bark with laughter. 

The siblings set off through Winterfell’s winding corridors, bickering and shoving one another back and forth. 

Winterfell’s visitors flooded through the gates in a cluster of black, polished silver, and crimson red. 

Elaenora’s eyes widened at the sight. 

There had to be nearly two hundred knights, bannermen and sworn swords all riding under the same banner: a three-headed dragon breathing flames, laid in red upon a black background. Maester Archer had spent years drilling the great houses into each of his pupils until she could have identified every banner in Westeros with her eyes half closed.

She had once thought those lessons dreadfully dull; now she silently thanked him. 

‘Gods… they’ve brought half of King’s Landing with them,’ she muttered, glancing at Artos. 

Artos leaned closer and replied, ‘What they’ve brought is an army… must think we’re a threat.’ 

Elaenora glared up at him but said nothing as people began to dismount their horses. 

One man caught her attention quickly. Prince Baelor Targaryen.

Even from a distance, there was something undeniably regal about him that caused her shoulders to square and her spine to straighten. 

His light brown hair caught the pale sunlight whilst a heavy cloak of black and red draped across his shoulders. He didn’t rush to take his gloves off, prying at one finger carefully. He seemed to carry himself with the ease of a man long accustomed to respect, much different to his younger brother, who rode beside him—Prince Maekar.

Where Baelor appeared approachable, Maekar looked as if he were carved from stone. 

Truth be told, neither prince looked particularly impressed by what stood before them, but Baelor hid it better than Maekar did. Elaenora believed Maekar wasn’t even trying, judging by the way one eyebrow was raised and his lips curled back as an unpleasant smell from the stables swept through the yard. 

The Hammer and the Anvil had arrived in Winterfell. 

A magnificent black and silver wheelhouse rolled into the courtyard, pulled by ten large horses. Its polished wood and gilded detailing looked absurdly expensive against the grey stones of Winterfell. Inside, the curtains had been drawn back against the daylight, allowing Elaenora a small glimpse of those travelling within. 

She caught sight of silver hair first, followed by a handful of sharp faces. She didn’t know which prince was which, and she didn’t have enough time to begin wondering, for her father stepped forward.

Lord Stark didn’t bow deeply. Instead, he inclined his head, the respect owed to the blood of the dragon, but nothing more.

‘Prince Baelor, your grace,’ Beron greeted.

‘Lord Stark,’ Prince Baelor replied with a voice calm and polite. He shook Beron’s hand firmly, one hand locked in his clasp and the other patting him softly on the shoulder. 

Prince Maekar stepped forward and offered his hand as he said quietly, ‘Lord Beron Stark.’

‘Prince Maekar… Welcome to Winterfell.’ 

Elaenora's eyes drifted towards the wheelhouse as its polished doors swung open. One by one, the younger princes descended the narrow steps, boots sinking slightly into the churned earth before they took their places behind their fathers with practised precision. A pair of the youngest murmured to one another, earning a glance from an older brother before they fell silent.

One prince, however, spoke to no one.

His lilac eyes swept slowly across the courtyard, lingering on the battlements, the guards upon the walls, the stable yard beyond, and finally the Stark family assembled before him. It was not the idle curiosity of a person seeing Winterfell for the first time, but the measured appraisal of someone who missed very little—and judged everything he saw.  

Elaenora found herself holding his gaze for the briefest moment before he looked away. 

He was, rather unfairly, the prettiest of them all. She disliked him immediately for it. No man so pretty ought to have the attitude of anyone but someone who had been told that all their life. 

Then her father glanced over his shoulder, drawing her attention back to the introductions.

‘This is my wife, Lady Lorra,’ Beron said, reaching back and taking Lorra’s hand firmly into his own. 

Elaenora watched her mother carefully, worried. She noted the way her fingers dug into the fabric on her father’s arm as she curtsied politely. She leaned into him ever so slightly, using him more as an anchor than anything else.

Prince Baeron and Prince Maekar offered her a simple smile and a nod. 

‘These are my children,’ Lord Beron said, gesturing to his left.

Before he could continue the introductions, Prince Baelor stepped towards Donnor, his deep brown eyes travelling over him from head to toe.

‘You must be Donnor. My, you are the very image of your father,’ Baelor said warmly, clasping Donnor's forearm.

He stepped sideways to the broad-shouldered man beside him and gave an approving nod.

‘You're a sturdy one. Willam, I presume?’

‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Willam replied, unable to hide a flicker of surprise that the heir to the Iron Throne knew his name.

As Baelor released his hand, his gaze dropped to where Willam's fingers remained intertwined with the young woman standing just behind his shoulder. Her free hand rested instinctively upon the swell of her stomach beneath the heavy wool of her gown.

Baelor's expression softened as he murmured, ‘And this must be your lady wife.’

‘My wife, Melantha, Your Grace,’ Willam said, gently drawing her forward.

Melantha dipped into a graceful curtsey, steadied by her husband. 

‘It is an honour to welcome you to Winterfell.’

‘The honour is mine, Lady Melantha,’ Baelor replied kindly. His eyes flickered briefly to her rounded belly before returning to her face. ‘Congratulations to you both. I hope the babe continues to grow strong.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ Melantha answered with a warm smile, while Willam's hand instinctively settled more firmly around hers.

Baelor inclined his head before moving along the line until he stood before Artos and mused, ‘I've heard about you... Are you as good a fighter as I'm told?’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘Good,’ Baelor said with a small smile, then he moved on.

Elaenora suddenly became very aware of the weight of her sword hanging at her hip as Baelor stopped before her.

For a moment, he said nothing at all. He simply took in her appearance: the dark curls of her hair that fell just inches from the ground, even whilst tied back, the wolf clasp of her cloak at her throat, and the sword resting comfortably against her side.

The silence stretched long enough that she became aware of everyone watching.

Slowly, she dipped into a curtsy and said, 'Elaenora, your grace.'

When she straightened, Baelor was still looking at her with an expression she wasn’t able to decipher all too well, that was, until a small smile appeared on his lips.

'So this is the Beauty of the North I’ve been so earnestly told about?’ 

Heat immediately threatened to climb into her cheeks as she said, 'I fear the North has exaggerated, your grace.’ 

'I don’t think it has.' His eyes flicked once more toward the sword. 'And yet somehow neglected to mention the blade.'

'My father saw fit to educate all of his children on the art of protecting themselves.'

'A wise decision.'

Baelor inclined his head to her before moving onward.

Berena received a far easier greeting, as did Alysanne. Errold and Rikard got even warmer greetings, Baelor bending down to their height to speak with them and politely inform them that no, they did not bring any dragon with them.

They all then met Prince Maekar, and where Baelor’s warmth filled the courtyard easily, Maekar brought something altogether different.

He moved down the line as his brother had with measured steps and observing eyes. Nothing seemed to escape his notice. He spoke with Donnor longer than any of the others. He asked Willam one question, nodded at Melantha, offering her a quiet, ‘Congratulations,’ and silently examined Artos as though assessing a warrior rather than the third son of Lord Stark. 

When he reached Elaenora, his gaze immediately settled upon the sword at her side. He said quietly, 'You carry steel.'

'I do, your grace.'

'Can you use it?'

'Well enough.'

Maekar grunted, and whether that was approval or disapproval, Elaenora couldn’t tell. He moved along, greeting the rest of the Stark children with a small incline of his head. 

Then at last came the princes that Baelor beckoned forward.

One by one, the sons of House Targaryen stepped away from their fathers and began making their way down the line of Stark children, though not in order. They didn’t introduce themselves, but Baelor did from just over their shoulders. 

Prince Aegon was kind enough to smile at everyone. 

Prince Matarys made sure to shake everyone’s hands, even Elaenora’s, Berena’s and Alysanne’s. 

Prince Valarr and Prince Aemon were the only two kind enough to do both. 

Elaenora was then standing toe-to-toe with Prince Aerion, who seemed rather firmly planted in place, his lilac eyes sweeping her entire figure. She almost found herself frowning: Up close, the songs suddenly seemed far less exaggerated. Elaenora hated that she had to admit it.

Silver-gold hair, pale unblemished skin and features so finely cut they might have been carved from marble by only the steadiest hands of whichever Gods deemed him so lucky. 

But Elaenora had learned long ago that a pretty face could hide all manner of things and that beauty was only skin deep. 

His gaze finally rested squarely upon the sword hanging from her hip, one pale brow lifting. 

Elaenora followed his stare and then looked back at him.

‘Do you actually know how to use that?’ His question was quiet, and not loud enough to be insulting, but it seemed far from innocent.  

Artos immediately shifted beside her, simply to favour his weight on the other leg, but Elaenora knew her brother and that he hadn’t taken kindly to the Prince. 

Aerion’s careless glance at Artos made Elaenora realise that perhaps Aerion knew not of her brother, but what he was capable of, and still didn’t care. 

Elaenora met his gaze evenly as she murmured, ‘Don’t have to be clever to know you’re supposed to stick someone with the pointy end.’

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Lord Beron closed his eyes briefly. Of all his children to provoke a prince of the realm, he would have wagered on Artos or Willam long before Elaenora. 

Aerion, however, simply stared at her as the smallest flicker of surprise crossed his face. It was gone almost immediately, but Elaenora saw it.

‘Is that what they teach in the North?’ Aerion asked.

Elaenora shook her head slightly and muttered, ‘No.’ 

‘And your sisters…’ Aerion trailed off, jousting his lips out into a pout as he looked down at Berena and Alysanne. 

Berena wore a sword at her hip, much like her sister, though hers was far smaller. The narrow blade was short enough that, at a glance, it could easily have been mistaken for a long knife rather than a true sword. Alysanne, by contrast, carried no weapon of her own. 

Something unreadable passed through his expression.

For the first time since approaching her, Aerion looked less like a prince inspecting something unfamiliar and more like someone who had finally found something interesting. It made Elaenora's stomach tighten. She had heard enough stories about Prince Aerion Targaryen to know that becoming interesting to him rarely ended well.

Gods give her strength…

‘The North had never been kind to those who were not welcome. Truth be told, it was not particularly kind to its own people either…’ Her voice was soft as she spoke. ‘It was a hard land to live in.’ 

She paused for a moment. 

‘Winter ruled longer than any king ever could dream of. The forests of the North stretched endlessly beneath dark skies whilst mountains clawed at the sky. The wind howled through the castles and keeps with the voice of something old and starving, rattling shutters in the dead of night and slipping beneath doors no matter how tightly they were barred by those who lived within.’

Her eyes were widened now. 

‘Even the gods themselves felt colder in the North… Men learned quickly that the North didn’t care whether they lived or died. It demanded strength from everyone and mercy from no one, and so its people became much the same.

‘Northerners were carved from the land that raised them. They were as tough as the ironwood forests and as steadfast as the mountains. They loved deeply, fought brutally, and remembered every slight handed to them, even generations later. Softness rarely survived there for long, nor did weakness.’

Her hands reached out to adjust the fur lying on top of the comforter. 

‘From the moment they could walk, Northern children were taught endurance long before gentleness. A boy would learn to start a fire before he learned to write, and a girl learned how to survive a blizzard before she learned most courtly manners… And amongst them all, House Stark stood at the heart of it.

‘And the man who ruled House Stark, Lord Beron Stark, knew one thing for certain: Winter was coming, and it would be as dark as the longest night and as cold as the land beyond the wall.’ 

This time, a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. 

‘So Lord Stark did what all great lords must. He prepared for the future. He needed heirs. He needed strong sons and daughters of his own blood to help carry Winterfell through the winters yet to come. He married Lorra Royce of Runestone. It wasn’t a marriage forged for love, but for duty, though the love bloomed anyway. A year after they wed, they welcomed their first son, Donnor.

‘Donnor was every bit Northern as they had hoped. He was his father through and through, Duty before honour—family, before all else. He was everything you could wish for as the future Lord of Winterfell… A short while later, Lord Stark and Lady Stark welcomed their next son, Willam. He was not as handsome as Donnor, nor as tall, but Gods were he smart and kind.’

Her hands fiddled with the embroidery in her lap, meticulously working the needle and thread through the canvas. 

‘Then along came Artos. He was loud in every way possible… and it seemed the Stark family was complete—’

The door swung open, and a sweet voice called, ‘What are you telling them now, Nan?’ 

Nan turned in her chair, craning her neck to watch the young woman cross the floor of the youngest Stark’s bedchambers, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword, the other hanging limp by her side. 

‘Well, dear, I was just about to tell them about you,’ Nan said, turning her attention back to the embroidery in her hands. ‘But I don’t think the children really want to know about—’

‘We do!’ Errold protested, sitting up in the bed, the furs falling from his shoulders. 

Errold was only seven years old and was a quiet boy. His dark hair framed his face, falling around his eyes, which carried a strange mixture of innocence and old sadness—a sadness he was endlessly reminded of. 

Cheer up, his family would tell him, even when he was cheery. His features had not yet hardened, and perhaps they never truly would.

‘Because then, eventually, you shall have to talk about me. Correct?’ 

‘Correct, little wolf,’ Nan mused, nodding at Errold. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes… The Stark family seemed to be complete, but Lady Stark was once again with child, and she ended up giving birth to a sweet baby girl named Elaenora.’ 

Elaenora rolled her eyes affectionately as she crossed the room and scooped Rodrik into her arms, settling him easily against her hip opposite her sword. 

‘Alright, that is enough stories for now. Supper is ready, and father has requested we all be there at once,’ Elaenora said, extending a hand toward Alysanne, helping the little girl climb from the overcrowded bed that held more children than blankets. 

‘I want to know what happens next,’ Rodrik told her, wrapping his arms around her neck. ‘Please let Nan finish the story.’ 

Nan rose carefully from her chair, setting the embroidery aside.

‘Oh, there is still time enough for that story,’ she said, helping Errold to his feet. ‘The ending has not quite been written yet.’

A small grin touched Elaenora’s face at that.

She placed a gentle hand against Alysanne’s head and guided her from the room, the little girl immediately beginning an enthusiastic explanation about the caterpillar she had found earlier that afternoon in the glass gardens and had decided to keep. 

Alysanne was never truly present. Her nose was always stuck in books, and her fingers were often intertwined with her long, dark locks, creating braids and knots that Elaenora would spend hours combing out. 

If she wasn’t playing with the animals, she was singing songs to herself and dancing, even when there was no music played. A glad child, she was. Creative. She was the gentle soul of the family, and that was something Elaenora never took for granted. 

The smell hit them first as they walked down the corridor. It was of fresh bread, roasting meat, onions swimming in butter, and the sharp bite of woodsmoke curling through the air. 

Alysanne was still speaking excitedly about her caterpillar by the time Elaenora nudged the heavy hall doors open with her shoulder, and they were immediately greeted with chaos.

Rodrik wriggled from her arms the moment he spotted the long tables, darting across the hall like an unleashed hound.

‘Rodrik!’ Elaenora barked after him.

The youngest Stark crashed directly into Artos, who had been carrying two tankards of ale back toward the table, and for a split second, it looked like neither drink would make it, but Artos was quick on his feet. 

Artos was considered the black sheep of the family, and not because of his looks. He was actually considered one of the most Northern-looking Stark children there was. His dark hair and severe, sharp features gave him a brooding appearance that made people hesitant around him. He had a strong jaw, intense eyes, and a face that often appeared carved into a permanent state of thought. 

Where the rest of the Starks needed one another to rely on, Artos thrived on his own, and he preferred it that way.

‘Seven Hells!’ Artos swore as ale splashed down the front of his tunic from his sudden stop so as not to run over the child. ‘You little menace!’

Rodrik burst into shrill laughter as Artos put the drinks down, caught him beneath one arm, and lifted him upside down despite his kicking protests.

‘Let me put him in the stew,’ Artos called across the hall. He grinned when Rodrik squealed. ‘Although I don’t think this one would be worth our while. Not much meat on him.’ 

‘You have all the meat!’ Rodrik shouted, reaching out and punching Artos in the stomach.

That earned a bark of laughter from Beron at the head of the table.

Lord Stark looked every inch a Northman, seated beside the fire. He was broad-shouldered and stern-faced, wrapped in heavy furs with grey threaded through his dark beard. His presence filled the hall as completely as the banners hanging from the rafters did. 

Beside him sat Lady Lorra Royce, elegant even here in the North where practicality mattered more than beauty. Though softer in appearance than her husband, there was iron beneath her calm expression. It was clear she was a Royce through and through.

Her grey eyes lifted immediately toward the younger children as Elaenora ushered them all to sit down.

‘Did they trouble you terribly?’ she asked.

‘Errold attempted negotiation for a longer story,’ Elaenora answered, pulling out a chair for Alysanne before taking her own seat. ‘Rodrik, I believe, has been feral like this all day. And Alysanne was just informing me of our new family pet—’

‘He’s a caterpillar, and his name is Archer, like Maester Archer,’ she interrupted sweetly, looking rather bashful about coming up with such a creative name.

Lady Lorra hummed softly, though her gaze lingered on Alysanne for a moment too long.

‘A fine name,’ she said at last. ‘Very clever, little one.’

Elaenora noticed the pause, though she said nothing.

Her mother had always been sharp and quick, whether that be with a retort or a smile. But lately, there were moments when Lorra seemed to wander somewhere far away, her thoughts drifting. Sometimes she forgot what she had been saying in the middle of a sentence, and sometimes she mixed one child for another. 

And sometimes she simply sat quietly, caught between memories that belonged to yesterday and those that had happened years before.

The maesters called it a wandering of the mind.

Elaenora knew only that her mother was still her mother, even when pieces of the path became harder for her to find. But sometimes, she just wasn't sure what version of her mother she would meet with each passing day. 

Berena snorted softly into her cup.

She sat between Willam and Nan, her dark hair braided back from her face, embroidery thread still looped loosely around one wrist from where she had clearly abandoned some task midway through. Of all the Stark children, Berena had inherited the most patience. Which was fortunate, considering the family she had been born into.

Nan settled heavily into her chair with a dramatic sigh and leaned over to Lord Stark before informing him, ‘These children will be the death of me; I hope you understand.’

‘You say that every night,’ Beron rumbled. ‘You are yet to die.’

‘One night I shall finally be correct.’

‘Do you have to argue with him?’ Melantha questioned Willam, her husband. ‘He’s five.’

Willam, who had been arguing with Rodrik across the table about Gods-know-what, turned to his wife and said quickly, ‘He’s a little terror, and I am offended you are taking his side.’ 

‘I’m not taking his side, I’m telling you not to argue with a child.’

Servants weaved between the tables carrying steaming trenchers, fresh loaves of bread, and bowls thick with stew whilst conversation rolled through the Great Hall in overlapping waves of noise.

Dinner at Winterfell was never quiet; that was a promise. 

By the time the first course had been cleared away, Rodrik had already spilled water down the front of his tunic, and the hounds at their feet and under the tables licked at the mess that he had made with eagerness. 

The second course arrived shortly after, filling the hall with the rich smell of roasted meat and herbs. Elaenora and Nan found themselves working together in a practised rhythm to ensure the youngest children actually ate something substantial rather than simply pushing food around their plates.

Though lately, it wasn’t only the children who needed reminding. Elaenora noticed the untouched portion on her mother’s plate.

‘Mother,’ she said gently, using her knuckles to push the plate closer. 

Lorra looked down, almost surprised to find the meal sitting before her.

‘Oh,’ she murmured, shaking her head. ‘I have eaten already.’

‘That was just some stew; we’re to eat our main course now.’ 

A small crease formed between Lorra’s brows. For a moment, she looked embarrassed, like a child caught making a mistake, but it smoothed when Elaenora reached across the table and quietly tore a piece of bread apart, placing it closer to her.

‘Here,’ she said softly. ‘Start with this instead… freshly baked.’

Lorra looked at her daughter, who smiled once more. It seemed to settle something within, and she picked up the bread and took a small bite. 

‘Rodrik,’ Elaenora then warned, her attention shifting as the boy began sneaking pieces of meat toward the dogs.

The little boy froze mid-motion, caught red-handed. 

Across from him, Alysanne groaned dramatically and slumped against Melantha’s shoulder. 

‘I am full,’ she declared, shaking her head. 

‘You have eaten three bites,’ Elaenora replied, tearing another piece of bread in half before placing it onto Alysanne’s plate. ‘You need to eat more.’ 

‘This is practically a feast, and I should not be expected to overstuff myself.’

‘All I’m hearing is womp, womp, womp. Eat.’ 

‘I wish to leave now,’ the younger girl suddenly announced.

‘No,’ came the chorus from half the table.

Rodrik attempted the same approach moments later, claiming he was suddenly exhausted, although he had enough energy to kick Errold beneath the table seconds earlier.

It carried on much the same through the third course. Loud voices, interrupted conversations, stolen food, complaints from the younger children, and Willam somehow managing to encourage all of it simultaneously whilst maintaining his usual nonchalant and innocent expression, even whilst being scolded by his pregnant wife. 

Then, eventually, Beron Stark had enough.

The Lord of Winterfell placed his cup down upon the table with a heavy thud. It wasn’t loud, but it was final enough to make everyone glance at him and silence the hall piece by piece until only the crackling of the hearthfires remained.

Beron’s gaze swept slowly across his family, lingering on each of them in turn beneath the dancing firelight.

'I have received word from King’s Landing,' he said at last.

That alone was enough to shift the mood within the hall.

Donnor straightened slightly in his seat. Willam’s expression sharpened with quiet interest whilst Artos, for perhaps the first time all evening, stopped fidgeting entirely.

Messages from the capital rarely brought anything simple with them; this much they knew. 

Beron rested one forearm against the table, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup as he answered, 'Prince Baelor Targaryen and Prince Maekar Targaryen are riding for Winterfell as we speak.'

Everyone’s faces reflected extreme surprise. 

'They are coming here?' Berena asked first, disbelief slipping into her voice. ‘The Princes?’

The Targaryens hadn’t been to Winterfell in years. Not since before most of the Stark children had been born, before they had known the weight of a practice sword in their hands or understood the games played between crowns and kingdoms, not that they know much more about that now. 

But now the dragons were coming north, and that thought sat strangely in Elaenora’s mind.

Near her, Alysanne looked between them all in confusion, her eyes moving from Berena to their father and back again as she innocently asked, ‘Why would they come here?’ 

No one answered her. 

Then slowly, understanding settled over Elaenora like falling snow.

Prince Maekar would be bringing his sons, more than likely—Prince Daeron, Prince Aerion, Prince Aemon and Prince Aegon—He hardly went anywhere without them since the death of Princess Dyanna, his wife. 

Marriage.

The thought came quickly, sharp enough that Elaenora almost hated herself for thinking it, so she pushed it away.  

She had long been intended for the young Umber heir, though no vows had yet been exchanged. The boy was still too young for a formal betrothal, but everyone assumed the match would be made when he came of age. 

Her future had already been decided. 

Berena and Alysanne were also far too young to even be considered for a betrothal. And yet… There were still very few reasons powerful enough to bring princes all the way to Winterfell. 

Elaenora looked toward her father, studying his expression.

Could her father break a promise made to one of the North’s oldest houses? Could he replace a northern match with a prince of the realm? She didn’t know if he could, or even if he would. Her father was a man of his word, and that frightened her more than the possibility itself.

Across the table, Artos shifted uncomfortably as he mused, ‘They cannot bring good news with them.’

Elaenora glanced at him sharply and hissed, ‘Artos.’

‘What?’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Tell me a time when dragons have come all this way without wanting something.’

Alysanne still looked confused. She then said, ‘But they are the king’s family. Is that not a good thing?’

Beron’s eyes moved toward her, and for a moment, his expression softened as he muttered, ‘It can be.’

‘And it can also be complicated,’ Willam mused, not looking up from his plate. 

‘Hush, all of you… The Princes are expected within the fortnight, and we will prepare for them, meaning I need all of you to help me.’ 

No one spoke, but they all nodded. 

‘Winterfell will be prepared to receive them properly.’

Elaenora stared into the fire to her left, her mind racing with possibilities. Somewhere far to the south, dragons were already making their journey, and soon, they would be in her home, inspecting every inch of the place along with every person living within their walls. 

Rodrik looked ready to burst apart with excitement as he suddenly asked, 'Will they bring dragons?'

'No,' Donnor answered flatly. He was never great with children. 

'Well, how do you know?'

'Because dragons don’t exist anymore.'

'They could be hiding.'

'They are not bringing dragons,' Donnor repeated.

'But what if they do?'

Whilst the younger children dissolved into chatter once more, Elaenora remained quiet.

Beron’s eyes flicked briefly toward his daughter, studying her for half a second too long, as though he realised she had already begun fitting pieces together.

Elaenora reached for her cup before anyone could question her silence, and the ale suddenly tasted far more sour than it had moments before.