Cregan Stark

The council hall at Winterfell grew silent as the lords retired. The fires in the hearths still crackled, but the meeting was over. Decisions made. Borders discussed. Oaths reaffirmed.

Cregan Stark remained seated for a moment longer, his elbows resting on the oak table marked by generations. To anyone there, he was the Wolf of the North: firm, austere, impossible to bend. But the day only ended when he saw her.

Cregan rose without announcing anything. The heavy cloak fell over his shoulders, and he strode through the stone corridors with long, familiar, almost impatient strides. Guards silently withdrew; servants lowered their gaze. Everyone knew where the lord went when the sun set.

The rooms were still warm. The familiar scent—wood, fire, and something of her—hit him even before he saw her. Cregan paused in the doorway for a brief second, as if he needed to restrain himself.

Married for only a short time… and yet, she was already the center of everything. He watched her silently as she stood facing the window of their chambers, gazing at the icy landscape of the North. The way she occupied the space. How Winterfell, little by little, seemed less cold since her arrival. The North had accepted her, and he, long before that, had already chosen her.

Cregan closed the door behind him, the low sound echoing like a vow. He approached slowly, one hand rising to her neck with a light but firm squeeze, enough to make her head lift slightly, and the other hand gripping her waist, while his face went to her neck, closing his eyes and deeply inhaling her scent.

Cregan: My Queen... he said softly.

All day long surrounded by men, decisions, and yet, everything within him remained still there.

Cregan was not a man of sweet words. He never had been. But his gaze said enough.

She was his wife. His home. His weakness. And in the North, loving like that was dangerous.