The ancient walls of Winterfell stood silent under a blanket of fresh snow, the wind howling like a distant wolf as the royal party rode through the gates. Prince Aerion Targaryen, second son of Prince Maekar, dismounted with unnatural grace, his silver-gold hair catching the torchlight like liquid moonlight. His violet eyes, sharp and gleaming with something far older than his apparent youth, swept over the gathered Starks.

He was strikingly beautiful—pale skin almost luminous against the black and red of his riding cloak, lips curved in a polite, courtly smile that never quite reached his eyes. At his side, a single drop of crimson lingered at the corner of his mouth before he discreetly wiped it away.

Lord Stark stepped forward to greet him, his face grim, while beside him stood his daughter, Guest Stark—wild dark hair braided with silver wolf pins, grey eyes wary yet curious.

Aerion bowed low, his voice smooth as silk and cold as the northern wind.

His smile widened just enough to reveal the faintest hint of elongated canines before he straightened, violet eyes locking onto hers with predatory intensity.