The gates of Winterfell groaned open as the royal procession approached, snow crunching beneath hooves and boots. Afternoon light spilled weakly over the looming grey walls, casting long shadows that reached like fingers across the courtyard. The great keep rose behind the battlements—ancient and unmoving, a fortress of stone and frost that had stood for thousands of years.

Drums beat low and steady as the lords and ladies of the North gathered in furs and leathers to receive the Crown's emissaries. Soldiers lined the walk, and the banners of House Stark—grey direwolf on white—snapped sharply in the wind.

Lyanna sat straight in the carriage beside Ser Rickard Celtigar, her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the window as she watched Winterfell rise before her. The conversation with Melisandre clung to her like smoke, but she pushed it aside now. The North demanded focus.

Aemond rode at the head of the party, silver hair whipping in the wind beneath his hood. His single eye scanned the battlements, sharp and searching. At his flank rode Ser Otto Hightower, stone-faced as ever, and the knights of the Queen's guard followed behind in solemn silence.

They came to a halt in the shadow of the great keep. The people of Winterfell stood in grim rows, their breath curling in the cold air, their eyes wary but respectful.

Lord Bennard Stark emerged from the front of the line, flanked by his kin. He was a broad-shouldered man of early middle age, his dark hair flecked with grey at the temples, and his eyes the same cold steel as the land he ruled. His greatcloak was clasped with a direwolf's head, and he bore the weight of authority with stubborn pride.

Lyanna stepped down from the carriage, snow crunching beneath her boots. Aemond dismounted beside her, silent and statuesque, his eye drawn immediately to her side—and what lay beyond it.

Because racing forward from the Stark retinue, grinning beneath windswept dark curls, was Cregan.

"Lyanna!" he called out, voice carrying above the hush.

She grinned, breaking into a run despite Ser Rickard's quiet protest, and met him halfway with a fierce hug that belied the months apart. He spun her once, laughing, before setting her back down.

"You're taller," she noted, poking his chest. "And leaner. You've been training."

"Every day," Cregan said proudly, "since you last left."

Aemond's jaw clenched, his eye narrowing slightly as he watched the two. He said nothing, but Ser Otto caught the flicker of emotion in the prince's gaze. Possessiveness? Envy? Perhaps even... something deeper.

Lord Bennard approached then, cutting through the moment like a cold wind.

"Welcome to Winterfell," he said, bowing stiffly. "Though I wish it were under better circumstances."

"Your hospitality is appreciated, Lord Stark," Ser Otto returned formally. "The Queen sends her condolences. You are remembered in court."

Bennard gave a shallow nod. His eyes passed over Aemond, respectful, but lacking warmth. Then they fell on Lyanna—and lingered.

"You are Rhaenys's daughter," he said, tone unreadable.

"I am, my lord," Lyanna answered, chin lifted.

"May the gods keep her well," Bennard said, but the sentiment felt practiced.

She met his gaze coolly. She didn't like him. And she knew, even now, watching the space Cregan carved out for himself in the yard, that Bennard's reluctance to pass the mantle had caused strain in the family. Cregan should have been Lord of Winterfell by now.

And Bennard knew it too.

Before the tension could thicken further, another figure stepped shyly forward from the Stark line. A girl, younger than Lyanna, with long dark hair braided down her back and pale blue eyes that seemed to flicker with cautious curiosity.

"This is Sara," Cregan said, motioning to the girl at his side. "My sister."

Lyanna blinked. "I thought you had no sisters."

Cregan's expression shifted slightly. "She's... my father's daughter. Born of a southern woman who lived here for a time. She stays at the edge of the grounds, but she's blood."

Lyanna turned to Sara and offered a warm smile. "It's good to meet you."

Sara smiled back shyly, her hands buried in the sleeves of her roughspun cloak. "And you. Cregan speaks of you often."

That earned an amused raise of the brow from Aemond, but his smirk faded quickly as Lyanna and Cregan fell into step beside one another, speaking as if no time had passed.

They were led into the warmth of Winterfell's great hall, its high wooden beams lined with furs, its stone hearths crackling with fire. The northern lords and ladies filed in behind them.

Aemond trailed just behind Lyanna, silent and brooding. His gaze flicked to her often—too often for his liking. The laughter she shared with Cregan twisted something low in his chest. Not rage. Not jealousy, even. It was more fragile than that.

Fear, perhaps.

Fear that her warmth, her fire, was not meant for him.

But then she turned suddenly, catching his gaze as if sensing the weight of it.

Their eyes met across the crowded hall.

And she smiled—faint, teasing, but real.

Aemond felt it in his bones like a spark catching tinder.

The fire between them was not finished.

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Aemond trailed behind the others as they ascended the stone steps into Winterfell's great hall, his bootfalls soft over the fur-lined floor. The warmth of the hearths clashed with the chill that had settled over his chest, a cold born not of snow—but of the sight of Lyanna in Cregan Stark's arms.

He hadn't expected it to sting.

He told himself it was the formality of the moment—the way she'd run to the boy, the way they'd held each other so easily. So familiarly. A touch reserved for kin, or perhaps something more. But even as he repeated the excuse in his head, it turned to ash in his mouth.

Why does she look at him like that? Laugh like that?

She didn't laugh like that with him.

Not yet.

He kept to himself as the nobles began to mingle, lords and ladies stealing glances at the Queen's son. They whispered when they thought he couldn't hear. One eye. Prince Aemond Targaryen. The rider of Vhagar. The Kinslayer—that name hadn't yet been earned, but suspicion trailed him like a shadow even now.

And then there she was.

The bastard girl.

Sara Snow.

She drifted toward him like a leaf blown by the wind—quiet, watchful, emboldened by proximity to royalty. She was not unattractive: slim and pale, her cheeks rosy from the cold, eyes the color of river ice. But her gaze lingered too long, and Aemond felt it before she spoke—the look some women gave him, the look that meant I know who you are. I want a taste of danger.

"My prince," she said, her voice careful and sweet. "I hope you find Winterfell to your liking."

Aemond didn't look at her right away. He kept his eye on Lyanna—still laughing at something Cregan had said, brushing snow from his cloak like she belonged there.

Only then did he turn.

"I find it cold," he said flatly, "and poorly lit."

Sara blinked, her smile faltering. "Ah. Well... it is the North."

"So I gathered."

There was a silence, and she fumbled, trying again. "You must be used to finer halls. The Red Keep is spoken of in songs."

"I do not care for songs," Aemond said, eye narrowing. "Nor for false flattery. If you have something worth saying, speak plainly. If not—do not waste my time."

Sara stiffened, her mouth parting slightly as though slapped by the sharpness of his tone. But she dipped her head, murmured a soft apology, and withdrew into the crowd with a bruised sort of dignity.

He didn't spare her another glance.

His attention had already returned to Lyanna.

She stood in the firelight now, her wild dark curls haloed in gold and amber. She was speaking with Cregan and Ser Rickard Celtigar, head tilted in that fierce little way she did when she was being stubborn. Even from a distance, Aemond could sense it—her defiance, her spark.

She was nothing like the northern girls.

She was a storm child, a dragon born on salt and smoke.

And she—and only she—was the one who ever made him forget the cold.

It unsettled him, how deeply the sight of her warmth stirred him. Aemond Targaryen did not care for others. He cared for Vhagar. For the blade. For honor, and the weight of duty passed to him when his elder brother refused it. But Lyanna...

She is not mine, he reminded himself.

Not yet.

But soon.

Let the wolf pup cling to her for now. Let the bastard girl dream of crowns and silver hair. In the end, they were all snow and ash, fated to be forgotten.

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The godswood of Winterfell was cloaked in snow and silence, the towering Weirwood standing like an ancient sentinel in the moonlight. Its red leaves barely rustled in the stillness, and its carved face, ever-weeping, seemed to watch the world with sorrow older than dragons.

Aemond stood before it with his hands clasped behind his back, the white of his hair catching the pale glow of the moon as if it too were carved from bone. His breath fogged the air in steady bursts, betraying the tension beneath his stillness.

She came quietly, though not quietly enough to escape his notice.

"Is it the gods you seek," Lyanna asked, her voice low, teasing, "or just the silence?"

Aemond didn't turn. "Perhaps both."

She stepped beside him, bundled in a thick grey cloak trimmed in silver fur, her cheeks red from the wind and her eyes reflecting the lantern light like twin stars. "You don't strike me as a man who prays."

"I don't." His voice was cool, but there was a crack in it, faint but there. "But it's said the old gods listen even to those who don't kneel."

A pause, snowflakes settling in her lashes.

"Is that what you want?" she asked softly. "For them to listen?"

He turned at last, just slightly, his single violet eye meeting hers. "I want many things. Most of them I've had to take."

Lyanna studied him. "And yet you seemed ready to murder poor Cregan Stark with your stare this afternoon."

His jaw tightened. "He touched you."

"He hugged me," she said with a smirk. "He's my friend."

"He held you like a man does a woman, not a friend," Aemond said sharply, before he could stop himself. "And you let him."

Her smile faded, but not into anger. Into something more... knowing.

"You're jealous," she said.

He looked away, the muscle in his jaw ticking. "I am a prince of the realm. I don't—"

"You are a boy who doesn't like sharing," she cut in gently, stepping closer, her voice softer than snowfall. "You glare like you want to fight him, and you speak to every other girl like they're beneath your notice. And yet you follow me to the godswood."

Aemond was silent.

Lyanna tilted her head. "Say it, Aemond."

He finally met her gaze again, something dangerous flickering behind his eye—but beneath that danger was something else. Something raw.

"I don't like seeing others have what I want," he said, barely louder than the wind.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she didn't show it.

Instead, she smiled. Slow. Bold.

And then she leaned up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek—just below the edge of his eyepatch, where the skin was scarred and still warm.

Aemond froze.

When she pulled back, her lips brushed the shell of his ear as she whispered, "Then you should learn to ask."

And just like that, she turned, her cloak swirling around her ankles as she made her way back toward the keep.

Ser Arryk and Ser Rickard, who had tactfully turned away during the exchange, fell into step behind her.

Aemond remained there, alone before the ancient tree, the phantom of her kiss burning hotter than dragonflame.

He pressed a gloved hand to his cheek, as if to trap the sensation before it vanished into the frost.

He hadn't known it was possible to ache like this.

Not for war.

Not for vengeance.

But for a girl.

-NYRA SPEAKS

kept the vibes of the og chapter but changed the dialogue. 

Cregan the man who in the future will have 10 kids