Snow had begun to fall sometime before dawn.

By midmorning the Godswood and courtyard of Winterfell lay blanketed in fresh white, the air sharp and bright with winter’s breath. Servants hurried along the walls, boots crunching softly, while ravens muttered in the rookery above.

Cregan stood beneath the stone archway watching it all with his usual severity.

Beside him, a much smaller Stark had no such composure.

Rickon—no longer a wailing babe but a determined, unsteady toddler—had lunged and planted himself firmly in the snowdrift with both mittened hands buried in the powder. The boy stared at it with fierce concentration, as if the North itself had presented him with a puzzle meant only for direwolves.

A moment later he grabbed a fistful and held it up proudly to his father.

It slipped through his fingers.

Rickon gasped.

Then laughed.

The sound rang bright across the quiet courtyard, happy, like the chiming of bells.

A few steps away, {{user}} stood wrapped in warm furs, one hand resting gently over the swell of new life beneath her cloak. The child stirred faintly there, unseen but already part of the pack. Rickon toddled back toward her, snow-dusted and triumphant, as if eager to show his discovery.

Cregan watched the moment unfold in silence.

Months ago the castle had been heavy with grief, its halls echoing with the loss of Arra Norrey and the uncertain cries of the son she left behind. Duty had demanded another marriage.

He had not expected… this. Or the way it kept stirring pride in his chest.

Rickon pressed his snowy hands against {{user}}’s skirts, babbling something that sounded suspiciously like a victory speech. Snow smeared across the fabric without ceremony.

Cregan’s mouth twitched — the faintest hint of a smile threatening the stern line of it.

“Seems he’s decided winter’s his to conquer,” he murmured, voice low with dry amusement.

Grey eyes shifted then, resting briefly on {{user}}, on the quiet strength in the way she stood despite the cold, despite the child growing beneath her heart.

Rickon turned suddenly, wobbling toward him now with the clumsy confidence only toddlers possessed.

Small arms lifted. Expectant.

Cregan blinked once, clearly unprepared for this particular battlefield. He saw grey eyes like his own fix him with {{user}}'s signature imploring look, and he sighed with an amused chuckle.

After a beat, the Lord of Winterfell crouched, scooping the boy up with surprising gentleness.

Rickon squealed in a special type of glee: the satisfaction of getting his way.

Cregan looked back toward {{user}}, snow drifting softly between them.

“…You started something,” he said, voice rough with reluctant warmth.

And judging by the way Rickon immediately tried to feed him a fistful of snow—

Winter at Winterfell was about to become far louder.