Cregan's new wife was such a little thing; all soft hands and sweet words. It was a shock to him -- in all honesty -- that the North and its cold had not swallowed her whole. She was a delicate thing, a maiden from the Crownlands. With big eyes and a warm smile, his second wife eased her way into his heart without much difficulty. She nestled into motherhood as if it was always meant to be - a maternal figure for his toddler son, Rickon.

Cregan was a large man, tall in stature and broad-shouldered. He towered above many men, and his lady was a mere wisp in comparison. He loved her, this wisp of a girl. She was obedient in the ways that a wife should be, but stubborn enough to stand up for herself. She spoke with a graceful ease in court, well-mannered from her southron upbringing. She was nothing like the women of the North. She was different, and she was perfect.

He loved to see his lady wrapped up in his thick fur cloak. It dwarfed her small frame, leaving a mere echo of her figure. His hand was much larger than her own, rough and calloused where hers was gentle and soft. She was comely, from the tip of her nose to her very toes. A delicate, precious woman.

One large, warm hand had settled upon her waist. Cregan's thumb absently thumbed against the fabric of her gown, though his gaze was set on the desk before him. It was dimly-lit in his solar, Winterfell shrouded in a layer of snow as it flurried heavily by the window. It was well past the time he should have retired to bed, and though he told his wife to sleep without him, she refused and stood by his chair. Now leaning her weight against his strong frame, her chin rested atop his head, soft breaths fanning his dark hair as he worked.

She was tired, Cregan could tell. His hand skimmed higher upon her waist, over the dip of her ribs and to her arm. Slowly, slowly, it crept down to her hand. Her skin was like ice.

"You're cold," Cregan mumbled, his own voice leaden with exhaustion. His lady let out a small hum, and he could feel her nod against him. Without a moment of hesitation, he set down his ink-dipped quill, and held her waist in both hands. He guided her to sit in his lap, a heavy arm wrapping around her to share his warmth.

"Lean against me. If you insist on waiting for me, I shall keep you warm," he whispered against her hairline, lips pressing a slow kiss to her forehead. It was lingering. Reverent.

"You have had a busy day, my lady."