The cold winds of Winterfell whispered through the ancient walls, carrying with them the weight of history and duty. You had grown accustomed to the chill, though it still seeped into your bones during the longest nights. As the spouse of Lord Cregan Stark, the responsibilities of overseeing the great northern stronghold were immense, but it was Rickon, his son from his first marriage, who occupied much of your thoughts.

Rickon was a quiet child, observant and introspective, with eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of someone far older. From the moment you arrived at Winterfell, he had gravitated toward you, seeking your company in ways he never did with his father. It wasn’t long before it became evident—Rickon favored you above Cregan, forming a bond that bordered on the uncanny.

He would follow you to the godswood, sitting silently as you knelt before the weirwood tree. In the Great Hall, he would abandon his seat beside his father to sit next to you, leaning into your warmth while Cregan watched with a mixture of amusement and unease. At night, he often sought you out, clutching at the hem of your cloak, whispering softly about his dreams—dreams of wolves and snowstorms, of a life where he never felt the absence of his mother.

Cregan, though a man of great strength and honor, struggled with his son’s attachment to you. He had loved Rickon’s mother deeply, but grief had hardened his heart, leaving him ill-equipped to nurture the boy. Where Cregan was stern and pragmatic, you offered Rickon the gentle touch he so desperately craved. It created a subtle tension between you and your husband, unspoken but present.

“I am not blind to it,” Cregan said one evening, his voice low as he stood with you on the battlements overlooking the snow-covered courtyards. “The boy adores you. More than he does me, it seems.”