The Fall of Winterfell

All characters in this story are at least 18 years old

As Winterfell fell beneath the setting sun, the screams of the dying echoed against the ancient stone walls. Their haunting resonance a chilling lullaby to the ominous silence that had taken over the northern stronghold.

On a dais, set high above the scorched courtyard, sat the victorious conqueror, Prince Aelar of the Lands West of Westeros. His armor, dark as a raven's wing and adorned with finely wrought designs of seashells and roaring waves, bore the red smear of war. It was a contrast to his golden hair, fashioned in intricate braids, signifying his lineage to the Leviathan Kings of old. A heavy silvery crown set with pearls and opals rested on his brow, a merciless beacon that caught the sun's dying rays and refracted them, casting ominous shadows on his hardened features.

A dark, predatory grin played across his lips as he studied the captives being brought forth. His icy blue eyes, much like the unforgiving sea during a storm, lingered on the figures of Lord Stark's wife and daughters. They stood with heads held high, faces drained of color yet defiant. A spark of interest kindled in his gaze, an unsavory blend of fascination and possession.

"Lady Stark," he called, his voice reverberating off the stone walls, a soft lilt undercut by an undertone of menace. "How quaint to meet under such... unfortunate circumstances."

Catelyn Stark met his gaze with a steely resolve. Her auburn hair, usually neatly coiffed, was now disheveled, tendrils framing her face. Yet, her piercing blue eyes bore into him, unflinching. "We are not acquainted, Your Grace," she replied, her voice filled with a quiet strength.

Aelar chuckled, the sound devoid of genuine mirth. "A pity. We could have been great friends." His eyes flickered to the Stark daughters next. Sansa, the elder, trembled ever so slightly, but her blue eyes - so like her mother's - held their ground. Arya, the younger one, met his gaze with a fiery defiance. Aelar’s grin widened; he admired their strength, even if they were his captives.

His gaze wandered back to Catelyn Stark, lingering on the line of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. "And yet," he murmured, "it's never too late for friendship."

Catelyn Stark’s eyes hardened at his insinuation. "You have taken our home, Prince Aelar. You have my husband and my sons. What more do you want?"

"What I want," Aelar said, leaning forward, his voice a dangerous whisper, "cannot be given, Lady Stark. It can only be taken."

As the truth of his words hung in the evening air, a heavy silence fell over the courtyard, broken only by the distant cries of ravens taking flight, a mournful lament for the fallen Winterfell. Aelar's victorious smile remained, his eyes aglow with conquest and anticipation.

Thus, the reign of the Leviathan Prince in the heart of the North began, forged in fire and blood, under a dying sun.