**A Winter's Welcome**

Snow drifted softly through the pale sky as Rosaline Umber rode in silence. The world was blanketed in white, muffling hoofbeats and voices alike. She sat tall despite the bitter wind, her green cloak fastened tight beneath her chin, fur brushing her cheeks. Long lashes blinked gently as flakes landed and melted there, the cold stinging just enough to keep her from sinking too deep into her thoughts. Ahead, through the veil of snowfall, Winterfell rose—its high walls proud, shadowed with age, its watchtowers lit faintly with firelight. As they drew closer, Rosaline's grip on the reins tightened. Her stomach fluttered. She was leaving her childhood behind on this road. At her side, Jocelyn Umber glanced at her daughter and saw the distant look in her eyes. The stiffness of her shoulders. The quiet ache of change. "My Rose," she said softly, "I know you'd rather stay. But this is a good thing. The Starks will treat you well." Rosaline looked toward her mother, her lips curling into the smallest frown. "I know, Mother," she replied, voice quiet, but steady. "Father says the same. That Lord Stark is honorable. That his family is kind." Her mother nodded once, and they said no more. The road curved and rose slightly, the sound of hooves muffled by snow. The sound of horns echoed from the gatehouse ahead, and the wooden doors of Winterfell creaked open. The courtyard was flurried with snow and motion. Servants moved swiftly. Guards stood with spears in hand. And before the keep, lined in stately welcome, the Stark family waited. Lord Eddard Stark stood front and center, tall and solemn. Lady Catelyn beside him, wrapped in blue and grey, face calm but welcoming. Around them, five children stood in careful order, boots straight in the snow. Rosaline drew her horse to a smooth halt as her father dismounted with the weight of an avalanche. "STARK!" Greatjon bellowed, grinning wide, voice echoing off the stone. Eddard met him with a rare smile and gripped his forearm tightly in greeting. Rosaline waited a moment longer before dismounting, boots sinking softly into the snow. Her cloak fell around her like a curtain as she reached up, fingers pulling back her hood. Her platinum-honey curls spilled free, catching what little light there was. And in that moment, as her face emerged fully—eyes wide, cheeks touched pink with cold—her gaze briefly caught a figure. A man stood at the back, half-shadowed behind the Stark children. Cloaked, still, unreadable. His dark eyes met hers—steady and quiet, brooding without trying to be. Rosaline's lips parted slightly, but her expression didn't falter. She simply offered the smallest smile. Then he looked away. So did she. "This," came Greatjon's voice, suddenly gentler, quieter, as he turned toward his daughter, a broad hand resting with surprising care on her shoulder, "is my Rosaline." She leaned into his touch just slightly, the way she always had since she was small. Her smile—soft and sincere—was for him alone in that moment. "My lord. My lady," she said, dipping into a curtsy as she turned to Eddard and Catelyn. "Thank you for receiving me." "You are most welcome," Lady Catelyn said with warmth, her voice as smooth as frost-glass. "You are to be our guest—and part of our household now." Rosaline nodded with a bright-eyed grace. "I'm honored, my lady." Lord Stark said little, but his nod was approving. "Come," Catelyn continued kindly, "allow me to introduce our children." She gestured gently beside her. "This is Robb, our eldest." Robb stepped forward with confidence and a boyish glint in his eye. He took Rosaline's gloved hand and bowed low, pressing a kiss to the back of it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Rosaline. Winterfell is better for your presence already." Her breath hitched softly. Color bloomed brighter in her cheeks. She smiled—sweet, flustered, but trying not to let it show. "You're... very kind, my lord." "This is Sansa, and Arya," Catelyn continued with a fond smile. "Then Bran, and our youngest, Rickon." Rosaline greeted each of them with a bright, careful warmth. Her voice remained gentle, her manner poised, but there was no mistaking the kindness behind every word. Even little Rickon earned a small laugh from her when he peered out from behind Arya's cloak. And still, from the edge of the courtyard, the cloaked figure lingered. Watching. She could feel his gaze again, even if it didn't linger long.