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SEVEN DAYS had passed since Maelys' arrival in Winterfell, and in those long, cold days, she had barely left the confines of her chambers. The bitter chill of the North clung to her skin like the prick of a thousand tiny needles, the air in Winterfell biting and sharp in a way that even the thickest of furs could not protect her from. Despite the warmth of her bed and the fire burning in the hearth, the cold seemed to seep into her bones, a constant reminder that she was far from the warmth of Dragonstone and the south.
Her thoughts, however, were not of Winterfell or the frigid North. They drifted relentlessly to King's Landing, where the warmth of home had turned into a cauldron of simmering tension. She imagined the Red Keep, its halls echoing with the whispers of a family at odds, the court on edge as the rift in the House of the Dragon grew wider by the day. Her heart ached with the thought of it, of the storm her mother had written about in her last letter, the one that now seemed inevitable.
Maelys had always known that the Targaryen family carried the weight of the realm on their shoulders, but this... this was something far darker. The uncertainty gnawed at her, creeping into her every thought, twisting her stomach into knots. She missed her mother, missed the steady presence of Alicent's calm guidance, though even her letters were growing more frantic with each passing day. The storm was not just brewing; it was building into something unstoppable.
The handmaidens, who had been assigned to tend to her, often spoke in hushed tones when they thought she wasn't listening. They whispered of the princess who had come from the south but seemed unfit for the harshness of the North, her condition worsening by the day. They did not know that it was not the cold that had drained her, not the frigid air of Winterfell, but the weight of the burden she now carried. The marriage, the betrothal, the duty she could not escape. The reality of it had settled heavily over her since the moment she stepped foot in the Stark stronghold.
But there was something else—a gnawing fear that came with the silence between her and Cregan Stark. Since that night at the feast, where she had acted so recklessly, they hadn't spoken a word to one another. Not a single glance, not a shared moment. It was as though a wall had been built between them, cold and impassable. And yet, despite the awkwardness, despite the weight of her own worries, Maelys couldn't deny the small voice in her heart that whispered of her own pride, of her own defiance.
Winterfell had closed in around her, a place of shadows and cold, but it was not Winterfell that kept her awake at night. It was the thought of home, the thought of her family fracturing with each passing day, the storm that was coming—and how she, as a Targaryen, could not escape the tempest.
A soft knock on her chamber door interrupted Maelys' spiraling thoughts. She blinked, pulling herself from the haze of worry that had enveloped her since receiving her mother's last letter. The cold of Winterfell seemed to press even harder against her skin, but the knock was insistent, patient.
"Princess," came the voice from the other side of the heavy wooden door, firm but respectful. "It's Ser Erryk."
Maelys hesitated for a moment before rising from her seat near the hearth, her limbs stiff from the hours spent in the same position, staring into the flames as though they might offer her some warmth. With a deep breath, she crossed the room and pulled open the door.
