The harbor bells rang before dawn. Their echo rolled across the misty waters of White Harbor, scattering the gulls and stirring the fishermen from their sleep. From the watchtower, the first glint of red and black sails appeared against the pale horizon — three great ships, their banners snapping in the freezing wind.
"Dragons," someone whispered. "The dragons have come north."
By the time the ships neared the docks, the entire city seemed to pulse with life. Merchants, sailors, and smallfolk crowded the quayside, straining to catch a glimpse of the royal fleet. The banners of House Targaryen billowed high — the three-headed dragon gleaming crimson against black.
Lord Wyman Manderly was still in Winterfell with his son, but his brother, Ser Marlon Manderly, stood at the harbor's edge, wrapped in white-and-blue furs. As Harbor Master of the North, he had prepared for this day with meticulous care. The docks were scrubbed, the streets cleared, and banners bearing both the direwolf and the merman hung side by side.
When the first ship, The Silverwing, dropped anchor, Marlon called out: "Welcome to White Harbor — the Gate of the North!"
The gangplank lowered with a groan, and the first to step onto northern soil was King Rhaegar Targaryen himself.
Even wrapped in heavy furs, his silver hair caught the faint morning light like spun frost. The dragon sigil of his house was stitched in dark red across his cloak, the fabric shimmering faintly with enchantment to ward off the cold.
Behind him came Queen Elia Martell, her olive skin pale against the winter air. She held her daughter Princess Rhaenys close, the little girl's fur hood pulled tight around her face. Among the royal entourage was also the youngest of the dragon's brood, Princess Daenerys Targaryen, barely four years of age. Wrapped in soft white fur lined with silver thread, she peeked from her nurse's arms with wide violet eyes, mesmerized by the falling snow.
Prince Aegon, proud and curious, followed just behind his father, while Prince Viserys — pale-haired, bright-eyed — could barely contain his excitement.
"Snow!" Viserys exclaimed, crouching to scoop a handful from the ground. "It's cold, but it's… beautiful!"
Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, smiled faintly behind him. "Aye, Your Grace, until it freezes your fingers off."
The boy laughed, breath misting in the air. "You sound like Ser Barristan!"
Arthur chuckled. "He says the same to me."
Rhaegar turned at the sound, his expression soft. "Stay close, Viserys. The North is not gentle to strangers."
Behind them, Oberyn Martell, Elia's fiery brother, disembarked, his Dornish cloak thick but defiant in its color — deep crimson lined with gold. He eyed the icy docks with disdain. "Seven hells, it's like the world itself died here."
Elia sighed. "Be kind, brother. These people endure this cold every day."
Oberyn smirked. "Aye, and they must be half mad because of it."
Ser Marlon Manderly stepped forward, bowing low. "Your Graces, on behalf of House Manderly and the North, I bid you welcome. Lord Wyman sends his apologies that he cannot receive you himself, but he awaits your arrival in Winterfell."
Rhaegar inclined his head. "The North's hospitality precedes it. My family is grateful for your service."
"The honor is ours, Your Grace," Marlon replied, straightening. "Your chambers are prepared in the Sea Lord's manse overlooking the harbor. Warm fires, Dornish wine, and venison stew await. You'll find the chill easier to bear once you've broken bread with us."
At the mention of food, young Rhaenys perked up. "Do they have lemon cakes?"
Marlon smiled. "Aye, princess, and sweetberry pies besides."
Aegon glanced up at his father. "I told you the North couldn't be all bad."
Even Rhaegar's solemn features softened with a trace of amusement.
As the royal entourage made its way through the harbor streets, the people of White Harbor bowed and cheered. The children marveled at the sight of knights in polished armor and women wearing jewels that glittered like captured sunlight.
But beneath the awe was curiosity — and wariness. These were the rulers of a land where dragons once ruled the sky, now walking among wolves and mermen.
Queen Elia, wrapped tightly in sable fur, leaned toward her husband as they passed rows of snow-covered stalls. "It's strange," she murmured. "Even the air feels heavier here."
"It's older," Rhaegar said quietly. "The North remembers what the rest of us have forgotten."
Oberyn scoffed. "It remembers frostbite and bad wine."
Elia shot him a glare. "Oberyn."
He smirked, unrepentant. "What? If the snow doesn't kill me, the politeness might."
The smallfolk laughed at his grumbling, and even a few guards hid their smiles.
Behind the royal family came a procession of nearly two hundred souls — knights, maids, cooks, scribes, septons, and soldiers. The gold and red of House Targaryen gleamed like fire against the white snow.
The royal banners fluttered beside the merman of House Manderly, the sight both strange and mesmerizing — fire and sea united under frost.
Prince Viserys marched proudly beside Ser Arthur Dayne, trying to imitate his knightly stride. "Ser Arthur," he said breathlessly, "will the Starks have direwolves like in the stories?"
"Without doubt," Arthur replied. "Perhaps they'll lend you one for the feast."
Viserys's eyes widened. "Truly?"
Arthur smiled. "If you ask politely."
Further behind, Prince Aegon rode his horse with quiet dignity, the cold reddening his cheeks. His mother leaned out from her litter to call to him. "Keep your cloak tight, my son. You're turning blue!"
"I'm fine, Mother," he insisted, though his teeth chattered.
Rhaenys giggled from within Elia's side. "You look like a berry, Aegon!"
Even Rhaegar couldn't help a chuckle. "A dragonberry, perhaps."
By midday, the royal family reached the great square where the Sea Lord's manse stood — a towering marble structure built centuries ago when White Harbor still dreamed of rivaling the Free Cities. Its walls gleamed white as bone, and blue banners snapped proudly in the wind.
Servants had lit hundreds of braziers around the courtyard, filling the air with the scent of burning pine and roasted meat. Warm cloaks were offered, and mulled wine was served in silver cups that steamed in the cold.
As Rhaegar and Elia ascended the marble steps, Marlon Manderly bowed again.
"Rest well, Your Graces. The road to Winterfell is long, but my brother's men are already preparing your escort — a hundred riders, armed and fed. The North is honored by your coming."
Rhaegar placed a hand over his heart. "And the Crown is honored by the North's welcome. Tell Lord Wyman that I look forward to meeting him — North is like a second home to me."
At that, even the wind seemed to still. Elia looked at her husband sharply, but he only turned toward the harbor, watching the snow fall over the sea.
Far in the distance, the great road to Winterfell waited, a ribbon of white cutting through endless gray.
The dragons had come to the land of wolves — and winter was watching.
The Sea Lord's Manse of White Harbor was unlike anything Queen Elia Martell had ever seen. Built of pale marble and carved so finely it caught and reflected the cold northern light, it gleamed like a palace made of ice. Fires burned in every brazier, perfumed with pine and cedar to fight the chill, yet still she could not rid herself of the cold. It crept beneath her silks, sank into her bones, and whispered that she did not belong here.
Outside, the harbor lay silent under a shroud of frost. Three royal ships, their hulls rimmed with ice, rested in the bay like sleeping beasts. The voyage from King's Landing had been long and merciless; even now, some of the Dornish guards kept close to the braziers, their dark eyes wary of the endless snow. The royal family had been in White Harbor for three days, and though the people were courteous, their smiles were distant, as if carved from the same stone as their city.
Elia sat before the window of her chamber, staring at the frozen waters, when the door opened quietly behind her.
Rhaegar entered.
He wore northern furs now — gray and white — the colors of wolves, not dragons. The sight made something twist deep within her chest.
"You should rest," he said gently, coming to stand beside her. His breath misted in the cold air. "We'll ride for Winterfell soon. You'll need your strength."
"I rest," she said lightly, though her voice was thin. "But my mind doesn't sleep as easily as my body."
He studied her face for a moment. "Is the cold troubling you?"
"The cold?" She gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "The cold is only honest. It tells me it means to kill me. Men, on the other hand, smile and freeze you all the same."
Rhaegar frowned faintly, sensing the edge beneath her tone. "Elia—"
She rose from the chair before he could finish. "You've always spoken of the North," she said, turning to face him. "Even in court. Even in council. You've always defended it — their customs, their hardships, their endless winters. You speak of them as though they were your own people."
His expression softened, though his eyes darted toward the window, as though the distant snows could hide his thoughts. "They are part of the realm. A king who does not understand the North will never hold the South."
"Is that all it is?" she asked quietly. "Understanding?"
Rhaegar sighed, walking past her to pour himself a cup of wine. "You think me heartless, perhaps. But I admire the North because it endures. Where others build with fire and gold, they build with faith and frost. They remember things the rest of us have forgotten."
Her fingers tightened around the folds of her gown. "And is that why her name still troubles you?"
The question struck like a blade between them.
He froze — not a twitch, not a breath. Then, slowly, he turned. "Whose name?"
"Don't," Elia said softly. "You know whom I mean."
He stared at her for a long time, the silence between them heavy with all that could not be said. At last, he set the cup down and approached her again.
"Whatever songs they sing," he said, "whatever stories they whisper — Lyanna Stark and I shared no sin. I loved her courage. Her fire. But I never dishonored you."
"You loved her courage," Elia repeated, the words tasting like frost. "And yet when she vanished, you defended the North from every whisper of blame. Even now, years later, you speak of her as though she were still beside you."
His gaze fell to the floor. "She was innocent. I could not bear to see her name dragged through mud."
"And I," Elia whispered, "am supposed to bear your silence."
That night, as the Sea Lord's Manse grew still, Elia walked the empty halls alone. Her maids had long gone to bed, the guards standing like statues by the doors. From somewhere below came the faint sound of music — Dornish strings playing to comfort foreign ears. Yet even the melody sounded fragile here, as if afraid to echo too loudly in this cold city.
She paused at a window that overlooked the harbor. Beyond the frosted glass, the sea rolled gray beneath a thin moon. Rhaegar's ship — The Silverwing — swayed gently in its moorings, the dragon banners now furled and still.
It was a beautiful sight, but it felt like watching a dream that belonged to someone else.
In her heart, Elia knew she should not be jealous. She had a husband who was noble, dutiful, and gentle. He never raised his voice, never looked at another woman — not openly. And yet, whenever someone spoke the name Lyanna Stark, his eyes grew distant, as though his soul drifted to a memory he refused to name.
The courtiers at King's Landing never saw it, but she did. She saw it when he paused during song, when a servant mentioned the North's long winters, when a raven from Lord Stark arrived.
He would go still. Quiet. As if haunted by something only he could see.
"You look like a ghost, sister," Oberyn Martell said the next morning as he entered her solar. He was dressed in his usual bold colors, a crimson cloak thrown carelessly over his shoulders, his smile sharp as ever. "You'll freeze your beauty away in this cursed city."
Elia gave a weary smile. "And yet you walk through the snow as if it were sand."
"I'm fueled by wine and arrogance," he said cheerfully. "You should try it. Works wonders."
She sighed. "You should not speak so loudly here. These people already think we're heathens."
"They should think that," Oberyn replied with a grin. "Heathens live longer." Then his smile faded. "You're troubled."
Elia turned back to the window. "He still thinks of her."
"Lyanna Stark?"
She nodded.
Oberyn leaned against the wall, folding his arms. "A ghost in his heart, then. Every man has one. It doesn't mean she lives in his bed."
Elia's voice broke. "But she lives in his eyes, Oberyn. And sometimes that's worse."
Her brother's face softened. He reached out, taking her hand. "Then remind him what's real. Remind him who stands beside him, not what haunts him. Rhaegar Targaryen may dream of wolves, but he wakes beside a Princess of Dorne."
Elia laughed softly, though tears glistened in her eyes. "You always make everything sound simple."
"It's because I kill the men who make it complicated," Oberyn said lightly, and she couldn't help but smile.
Two days later, the snow fell heavier. The stables of the Sea Lord's Manse filled with the snorts of restless horses and the voices of soldiers preparing for departure. The banners of dragon and merman flapped side by side in the icy wind.
Rhaegar stood at the edge of the harbor, staring north, his breath forming clouds in the air. Elia joined him, her furs drawn tight.
"Tomorrow," he murmured, "we ride for Winterfell."
"And then?" she asked softly.
He looked at her — really looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. "Then we see the past buried, perhaps. Or see it rise again."
Elia's hand brushed his arm, the touch both tender and weary. "Let's pray the cold doesn't wake what should stay dead."
He smiled faintly, but his eyes were distant once more, fixed upon the white horizon.
And Elia Martell, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, felt the same chill she had felt since leaving King's Landing — the cold not of wind or snow, but of something deeper. Something that had never quite died between dragons and wolves.
Author's Note:
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