Winterfell! Don't You Guys Have Hearts?
The air around the iron bars was frigid. But the Winterfell Dungeon in the ducal residence was cozier than I'd imagined. No, to be precise, I was making it that way.
Chiik, chiiik...
I pressed my palm against the ice-cold bed mattress and focused my mind. The imperial secret art I'd dug up from the forbidden section of the Winterfell Library—Healing Touch. This sacred power meant for mending wounds was now being put to extremely personal use.
"Oh, here it comes. The warmth."
Every time a faint white glow rippled beneath my palm, the freezer of a bed grew comfortably lukewarm. An imperial prince using a sacred power that manifested once every 200 years as a boiler substitute... My ancestors would clutch their necks and keel over if they knew. But right now, my ass's comfort came first.
Still, using it nonstop seems to be improving efficiency—I'm not starving like last time.
I was in the middle of toasting the bed like that when steady footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor.
Beatrice? Finally regretting it and come to let me out?
I hurriedly straightened my clothes and plastered on the world's most pitiful expression, planting myself in front of the bars.
"Milady... I was wrong..."
"Huh?"
But the figure who appeared beyond the bars wasn't the red-eyed beauty. It was my god—bushy beard, hulking build, Captain Wolff Eisen.
"Your Highness, are you unharmed?"
"Captain Wolff? What brings you here? Did Lady Beatrice order my release?"
Wolff gave an awkward smile and shook his head at my hopeful question.
"No. Lady Beatrice commanded me to watch in case Your Highness tried to escape."
"Sorry to drag you into this unnecessarily, Captain."
Wolff glanced around before lowering his voice.
"Not at all. Truth be told, volunteering to guard Your Highness let me foist night training and outdoor bivouacs on the boys below... Er, delegate command duties, so I could lounge in this warm indoors. You're my lifesaver, Your Highness."
Look at this guy. A soldier through and through, down to his bones.
I let out a hollow chuckle and sank into the room's wooden chair. Wolff dragged over a chair of his own, plopped down in front of the bars, and pulled sausages and bread from his bosom.
"So, Your Highness, what on earth did you do to get Lady Beatrice to lock you in here?"
"Ah, well... I caught her secretly snacking on my paprika powder and teased her mercilessly about it."
I turned my head in embarrassment as I explained, and Wolff barked a "Wahaha!" while chomping his sausage.
"Your Highness, Lady Beatrice wasn't always this ice sculpture of a woman. Eight years ago, before that incident, when the duke and duchess were still alive... She was a wild tomboy like no other. She'd nail knights in snowball fights, then roll on the ground laughing. She'd even sneak paprika into my armor and bolt."
"Her? That icy woman?"
Wolff smiled at my disbelief and continued.
"Yes. She didn't even slice meat elegantly back then. Just like her father, she went nuts for it—once stole a fresh-roasted whole chicken from the kitchens and scampered up a garden tree. Still vivid in my mind, that mischievous glint in her eyes as she taunted me from above, lips slick with grease, sticking out her tongue."
Wolff's gaze drifted into the distance.
"But after the duke and duchess passed and all of Winterfell's burdens fell on those young shoulders, she abandoned her smiles. Probably thought she couldn't protect the North if she seemed weak. Wrapped herself up tight in talk of family dignity and discipline."
Wolff leaned in, whispering low as he eyed me.
"And Your Highness, honestly, I figured you'd bail quick when you arrived. Capital nobles fleeing the North's chill is commonplace."
"If I had anywhere to run, I'd have bolted ages ago. But this is my last shot."
I've gotta seduce Beatrice here to survive. Though so far, my antics seem miles from that goal... Still, time's on my side.
Wolff paused mid-bite at my flat reply. He must think I'm some discarded imperial prince.
Hmm... Well, I am discarded, so maybe I just die in two years anyway?
"Winning her palate and conquering the knights' bellies to seize that last chance? Now I'm even more curious about Your Highness's next moves."
"That's a secret."
Wolff erupted in a booming "Kekeke!" at my deadpan retort. He fished a small flask from his bosom, took a swig, and offered it to me.
"This is confidential, but after ordering Your Highness locked up, Lady Beatrice swung by the kitchens soon after. Asked if there was more of that powder you'd left. Punishing you with her mouth, but her head's full of your cooking."
I grinned at that. His earnest tale and the shared drink thawed my mood.
Ugh, but this booze is bitter. Anyway, there's something I need to tell Captain Wolff.
Time to repay this sturdy future bro.
"Captain Wolff, wanna see something?"
I stealthily rummaged in my bosom and offered him my most treasured possession: North Saga: Winter Night's Heat.
Wolff's eyes lit up at the cover's passionate illustration.
"Th-this! Your Highness! Don't tell me this is from the Winterfell Library?!"
"Shh, voice down. Found it there, been carrying it ever since. It's a masterpiece."
"O-oh! Your Highness! As expected, you're no ordinary man. Grasping the paprika powder and this priceless treasure's value. Haha!!"
We were deep in fervent debate over the erotic illustrations' compositions and artistry, laughing across the bars, when—
"...What exactly are you doing here?"
The icy voice from the corridor's end. I shoved the book into my clothes the instant I heard it.
Guess I was too caught up chatting with Wolff to hear her approach.
Clack. Clack.
Beatrice loomed before us, face terrifying, glaring down.
"L-Lady Beatrice! W-well... Just chatting lightly with His Highness. A-about... Northern culture, yes."
Wolff stammered his excuse, but her eyes had already sharpened to daggers. She sighed and flicked her hand.
"Enough. Good work, Captain Wolff. Go oversee training again."
"Yes, milady."
Wolff's face fell for a sec there.
Looks like he hated cutting our fun short for night training and outdoor sleeping.
"And Your Highness, I may have been too harsh just now."
"No, milady. I was wrong. Won't happen again."
At her gesture, the guard she'd brought unlocked the bars.
Clank.
Finally, parole after one hour!
That was the moment. Big mistake.
Stretching my bored body, the 'cultural heritage' I'd hastily stuffed in my clothes after tidying slipped out and hit the floor.
Thud, slide.
The open page featured a massive illustration of a woman in nothing but a white blouse, reclining seductively on the snowy plains.
"......"
"......"
Beatrice's gaze flicked between the floor and my face. Her red eyes blazed fiercer than when I'd busted her with the steak.
Shiiit.
"Your Highness."
"Uh... Milady, this is, y'see, artistic inspiration..."
"No reflection—instead, you had a grand time in jail. With this... vulgar trash."
Beatrice turned coldly.
"Confiscating this. And Your Highness's 'bedroom renovations' will take longer than expected. Stay put."
"Wait! Milady! Captain Wolff enjoyed it too! It's not just me!"
Please don't ditch me solo, Wolff—get locked up with me. You hate heading back to training...!!
But Wolff shot me a frosty look.
"Your Highness, what are you saying? As honorable captain of the Winter Guard, I would never look at such lowly drivel."
"Pfft."
Leaving me behind, Beatrice scooped my precious treasures and vanished coldly with Wolff.
Bang—!
Silence returned beyond the shut bars. I slumped back onto the floor I'd warmly heated myself, staring blankly at the void.
Confinement extended...
My treasure absurdly seized...
Trusted ally Captain Wolff betrayed me...
"Win... Winterfell! Don't you guys have hearts?!"
"......"
Hm. No reply.
I flopped onto the bed. Might as well sleep.
Meanwhile, back in her bedroom, Beatrice set the confiscated vulgar book on her bed.
"......Vulgar, indeed."
She glared at it like filthy refuse. But her hand moved against her thoughts.
What do they even teach imperial princes? For something this shameless to be in the library—gotta reprimand the curator.
Beatrice checked the door was firmly shut, glancing about.
Then, cautiously—very cautiously—she turned the page.
Rustle.
"......!"
Her breath caught. The book brimmed with the 'artistic compositions' Rian had raved about. Illustrations she'd deemed blatant now gleamed with eerily intricate, provocative hues under imagined northern moonlight.
"......Ugh, what's so great about this? And why does this one have bunny ears?"
Beatrice narrowed her eyes and roughly flipped pages.
"Just crude flesh on display. The imperial education system's suspect. Anyway... That prince is utterly incomprehensible."
She glared at the book like filthy refuse. But instead of hurling it, her hand opened the bedside drawer's bottom layer.
There lay her cherished childhood birthday gift—a pen nib—and precious letters penned by her parents.