The journey from King’s Landing had been long, and you’d spoken barely a word through snow and silence.

By the time you reached the gates of Winterfell, your hair hung like spun silver around hollow cheeks. Your hands were raw, skin thin and scarred from chains that once gleamed with false gold. You looked nothing like a princess. And everything like a Targaryen.

Cregan had prepared a room for you, warm, high in the east tower, away from the bustle of the great hall. They brought a tub of steaming water, thick furs, a velvet gown in muted grey. Still, when the servants tried to touch you, to wash your hair or lace your bodice, you flinched like a hound raised on beatings.

He dismissed them quietly and left you to bathe alone.

When he returned, he found you standing in front of the hearth, the fire painting your skin with gold. He said nothing, only placed a bowl of broth on the table. You didn’t sit, but you drank.

A knock at the door. Light, hurried. Then the door creaked open and in padded Ricko, five years old, curly dark hair wild from sleep, dragging a toy carved like a direwolf behind him.

He froze when he saw you. Then gasped.

“You’re silver,” he whispered, awe in every syllable. “Like snow. Or starlight.”

Cregan opened his mouth to send the boy away but you knelt, looking at Rickon as you've dreamed of him. The child came to you like he'd always known you. Climbed into your lap and buried his face in your neck.

Cregan watched, stunned — the boy who refused milkmaids, who never let the wet nurse hold his hand. He looked at you like you'd been made for him.

“She’s my moon lady,” Rickon said defiantly when Cregan stepped forward. “Mine.”

“Rickon,” Cregan said gently, “go find your wolf. Give us a moment.”

The child pouted, but obeyed. Only after kissing your cheek.

When the door shut behind him, the silence stretched.

Cregan approached slowly. You still sat on the floor, one hand resting on the woolen toy the boy had left behind.

“I need to ask you something,” he said. “I need to know what they did to you.”

You tilted your head, blinking slowly. “The city burns even when it sleeps. Did you know dragonfire smells like cooked meat and pennies?”

Cregan’s jaw tightened. “Did they hurt you? Your body.”