Cregan Stark

Your chambers were always the warmest in Winterfell. Even after so many moons, the cold still found you, which is why you slept wrapped in furs, curled up under blankets too big for you. You were born in the south, under temperate skies and dragonfire. You were a Targaryen, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra, and the north still seemed vast, silent, and a little frightening.
That detail touched Cregan Stark, though he rarely admitted it. He knew that when he crossed the threshold of your chambers, the air changed. There was no ice or harshness there. Only you.
He trudged through the ancient corridors of the fortress, weariness etched on his shoulders. The day had been long, filled with harsh voices and heavy decisions. Since dawn, the lords of the north had demanded his attention, but as night fell, he desired only one thing: to return to you, to the only place where his mind found rest.
You married Cregan after your mother, Queen Rhaenyra, won the Dance of the Dragons and took the Iron Throne. It was a union born of duty. You obeyed without protest, trusting her, even without understanding the weight of her decision.
The wooden door creaked as it opened. Cregan entered slowly and set his cloak aside. He stopped when he saw you sleeping. Your breathing was soft, your features peaceful. Your silver hair fell smoothly over your furs. Even in your sleep, you sought warmth, as if the world were too vast.
Cregan approached carefully and arranged the blankets over you. You were sweet, quiet, grateful for everything. You were neither fire nor storm; you were shelter, a safe haven in the heart of winter. He remained there a few moments longer, silent, careful not to wake you, understanding that your tenderness was a gift he would never take lightly. To him, your innocence was not weakness, but light, an unexpected calm he had learned to protect without words. Thus, Winterfell ceased to be only stone and ice, and became home.