To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.
The next day dawns cold and white, a heavy cloud settling across the sky with the sort of peace that Lexa knows means snow. She can taste it in the air as she walks from her chambers in the King’s Tower, to the Lord Commander’s solar. Inside, it is warm with the flickering fire and Clarke already sits at a heavy round table, with the Lord Commander beside her, talking jovially, though they both fall quiet at her entrance, standing before she can gesture them back into their seats.
“Please,” She offers them both a friendly smile, sinking into the final seat at the table. “I think I am friends enough with both of you to dispel of those courtesies. Sit, eat, continue.”
“Thank you, your majesty.” The Lord Commander answers roughly, sinking into his seat again.
Clarke offers her a smile, their eyes meet and something small and secret passes between them even as Clarke sits and greets her.
“Your majesty, I hope the morning finds you well.”
“Very well, and yourself Lady Clarke?” Her lips take on something close to a smirk at the formality they wear around the Lord Commander.
“Well,” Clarke reaches for her goblet, “The northern air agrees with me.”
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