aurora has been in winterfell for only a day, yet already she understands why this place shapes its people as it does. the cold here feels ancient and purposeful, a presence that settles into stone and bone with equal weight. she sees arthor in the courtyard, idling alone against the sweeping white, posture rigid as though even the wind warrants caution. drawing her cloak tighter, she approaches with measured steps, her footprints the only disruption to the clean blanket of snow. “lord arthor,” aurora greets softly, letting the words reach him before she does. “your home is as formidable as they say. though i doubt it requires quite so much bracing as you’re giving it.” steps slowing to a respectful distance, her breath curls in the air as she exhales. “i imagine this is as inconvenient for you as it is for me,” she quips, tone warm despite the chill. “a northerner with no love for the south, and an arbor girl with no desire to be bartered.” her tone is courteous, intentions nothing if not honest. “still… if we are to be weighed and measured by others, we may as well learn what they think they’re gambling.” she lifts her chin slightly, soft-spoken but unafraid. “tell me, my lord — am i a softness you’ve been warned to avoid? or merely another southern trouble to survive?”
✵ where. the inner courtyard of winterfell ✵ when. early winter, shortly after first snowfall ✵ with. arthor stark | @moonslost