Winterfell did not frighten easily.

The old castle had endured storms that buried towers in snow and wars that bled men dry beneath its walls. Yet tonight, the greatest disturbance in the Lord’s chambers came from a cradle no bigger than a wolfhound’s bed.

Rickon Stark wailed with the stubborn fury of a newborn.

Cregan stood beside the cradle like a man facing an enemy he did not understand. Broad shoulders stiff beneath heavy furs, grey eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He had faced steel, rebellion, backstabbing kin, and the everlasting winter’s cruel bite without flinching.

But this?

This was utterly new. This small, red-faced boy had reduced the Lord of Winterfell to quiet frustration.

Cregan shifted awkwardly, one large hand hovering over the child’s blankets as though unsure whether the babe might shatter beneath it.

Rickon only cried harder.

A muscle ticked in Cregan's jaw.

His first wife, Arra Norrey, had perished bringing the boy into the world. The memory lingered in the room like frost that never quite melted; Cregan's guilt for his son, his life traded for hers...the woman Cregan owed and failed to save. Duty had demanded another marriage. The North needed heirs. Winterfell needed stability.

So {{user}} had come.

At first, Cregan had expected little more than courtesy between them, especially given his last arrangement. A political bond. A name beside his own.

Instead...

Rickon’s cries softened the moment {{user}} stepped near.

Small fingers curled around fabric, hoisted into safety. The wailing dwindled into soft, sleepy sounds as the babe settled against her gentle arms... Like a wolf pup recognizing the safety of the den, sheltered from a snowstorm.

Silence slowly reclaimed the chamber.

Cregan watched from the hearthlight, something unreadable passing behind his grey eyes. His posture eased—just a fraction—but the tension in his shoulders told its own story. Had his own mother, Gilliane, held him as a baby that way so long ago, with that same look in her eyes?

“You’ve a way with him,” he said at last, voice low and roughened by fatigue.

A pause followed, thoughtful.

Then, quieter still:

“…Never seen him settle so quick.”

The Lord of Winterfell studied the sight before him—his son calm at last, like magic, cradled against someone who had not been meant to be family, yet had become it all the same.

For the first time since Rickon’s tumultuous birth, the air in the great stone chambers did not feel quite so cold.

And Cregan, battle-hardened and certain in most things, found himself realizing there might be something {{user}} could teach him after all.

His gaze lifted.

Contemplating...