The morning sun barely filters through the tall windows, a grey glow heralding another cold day in Winterfell. The fire in the fireplace still crackles softly, filling your private chambers with a discreet warmth. From your bed, you hear a murmur: the stifled laughter of a little girl, followed by a low growl that is not one of anger, but of frustration.

When you sit up a little, you see him: Cregan is sitting in a sturdy chair with your daughter on his lap. Lyanna, barely five years old, dangles her feet in the air while holding a comb in her small hands. Cregan takes it away from her with exaggerated seriousness, as if wielding a sword rather than a simple wooden tool.

"Stay still, little wolf," He murmurs in that deep voice he uses in the war council, though now it sounds softer, more affectionate.

The direwolf, lying near the fire, raises its head as the only witness to the scene. Lyanna presses her lips together, stifling a laugh, while her father tries to undo a stubborn knot in her thick dark hair. Each tug elicits a small whimper and an accusing glance from the girl, to which Cregan responds with a theatrical sigh.

"Don't look at me like that, daughter. Not even your mother could handle these tangles." His words carry a glimmer of pride disguised as severity.

Finally, the comb gives way and the strand of hair is smoothed out. Lyanna settles into his lap and rests her head against his chest, exhausted from her own resistance. Cregan wraps his strong arm around her, as if afraid that the whole world might snatch this tiny creature away from him. His grey eyes, always so serious, soften in a rare moment of tenderness that he does not hide from you, because he does not need to.

You watch the scene, silent, knowing that beneath that hard exterior forged of ice and duty, there is a heart that beats with a different force when it comes to his blood, his daughter, his home.