Cregan stood in the dimly lit corridor, his gaze tracing the intricate tapestries that adorned the stone walls. The air hung heavy with tension, and the flickering torches cast elongated shadows, dancing like restless spirits across the ancient stones.

The flames of conflict licked at every corner of Westeros, and Cregan knew that the fate of the Seven Kingdoms teetered on a precipice. His loyalty lay with the North, but the winds of war blew indiscriminately.

And there, framed by the torchlight, stood Princess {{user}}. Her brown hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall frozen in time. She was Rhaenyra’s daughter, the rightful Queen, and now a pawn in this deadly game.

He cleared his throat, adjusting the fur-lined cloak that hung from his broad shoulders. He had been betrothed to this dragon-blooded princess, their union forged in the crucible of war. But what did he truly know of her? Her hopes, her fears, the weight of her lineage?

“Princess {{user}},” Cregan began, his voice a low rumble. “Welcome to Winterfell.” He extended his hand, the calloused skin meeting the delicate curve of hers. “I trust your journey was not too arduous?” His eyes searched hers, seeking answers hidden behind the veil of courtly manners.