Stelsa, the girl crafted from the broken leftovers from the Gods, is far from the expectations of a normal lady. Her father, Aaeron Meryls, and her uncles sought to train her in the way of the blade. Many whisper about her origin - is she bastard li...
"A winter storm had always been within her, staring every person SHE MET IN THE EYE."
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STELSA COULD FEEL her heart pounding against her chest as the gates of Winterfell were opened, permitting herself and father inside. The snow clings to the fabric of Aemond's cloak that she had pulled tight against her, hiding her frame from the eyes that focused on her. Stelsa does not let a word slip from her lips and barely lets a single breath. It seemed the people of Winterfell shared similar notions as they merely stood still, almost like statues, watching as Stelsa guided her horse to a stop. Only the white winds that had chased her father and her across the field, nipping at their rosy cheeks that felt bitter and cold, echoed around them. She lowered her head, almost as though she meant to hide from them. Stelsa felt like an outcast at this moment. Why had she come all this way? Why had she not stayed with Heleana and the children? Caspian and Dyana? They needed her.
Why was she doing this when so many other people needed her back at King's Landing? She could handle the heartbreak. When had she become so selfish? So greedy?
Her father came to her side, reaching a palm up towards her. Stelsa took it and allowed her father to guide her down onto the snowy floor. "Ser Aaeron, late husband of Lady Ilya Stark, and their daughter, Lady Stelsa Stark." A guard branded her, bellowing the name for the statues to hear. She wasn't quite sure which one had said that, but that did not matter as she lifted her hands to peel back her hood.
Stelsa swore there were some gasps and the statues shifted in the white winds, but nonetheless remained silent. Her gaze moved past the statues and towards a man who stood beside a small boy – both of them rigid. Stelsa was not sure if it was the sight of her or the snow that also clung to them. Regardless, Stelsa found herself frozen when the winds howled once more. Her gaze met the eldest of the two, who she could only presume was her uncle. It had to be. His eyes were as gray as hers.
Did her mother also have those eyes? Has she been staring into a mirror her whole life?
Cregan was tall and looming. The little boy beside him seemed to barely reach his middle thigh and Stelsa fell right at the place his heart resided. His features were overshadowed by his long, brown hair that was loosely pulled back from his face — his pointed jaw was visible despite the beard that framed his face. Stelsa noted the sheer size of Cregan was comparable to Harwin. Perhaps it was all the layers he hid beneath, or perhaps it was how he was built from the life he had endured.
His son, on the other hand, was small beneath the layers he was buried beneath. He had his father's brown hair that hid his dark eyes. Rickon was tucked between his father and another woman who stood just paces away, head bowed to hide herself as Stelsa had done. She must be Rickon's tending lady. The moment their eyes locked, Rickon took a daring step forward to make the snow crunch beneath his boot.
For a moment, there was a sense of questioning that bred mistrust. Neither of them knew the other, but they knew they were of the same blood. Stelsa lowered herself down to her knee, not caring for the cold snow that pressed against her kneecap, and watched as a look of understanding flushed Rickon's features. He is the first person to smile warmly at her. "You must be Rickon." Stelsa greeted him in a quiet voice, willing their conversation to stay between themselves despite the amount of listening ears all around.
