Winterfell was a fortress of stone and snow, but Cregan Stark was a storm wrapped in skin.

You stood at the window of your shared solar, the cold seeping through even the thickest fur-lined cloak. Outside, Winterfell slept beneath a blanket of white. But within, the Wolf of the North paced.

You could feel his eyes on your back, those storm-grey eyes that never softened, not even in the quiet intimacy of your chambers. The only warmth they ever held was for you—and even that warmth burned.

“Why did you speak to Ser Alyn so freely at supper?” Cregan’s voice was low, edged with frost. Not angry. Not yet. But possessive. Always.

You didn’t turn to face him. “Because he asked me how I found the weather. Should I have consulted you first?”

There was a pause. A heartbeat. Two.

Then bootsteps against stone. Slow. Measured. Predatory.

He was behind you before you could think to move, one arm caging you against the stone window frame, the other ghosting up to your jaw, calloused fingers tilting your face toward him.

“That smile,” he said. “The one you gave him. That’s mine.”

“You think you own my smile now?”

“I own everything that you are.” His voice was a whisper now, almost reverent. “Body. Name. Womb.”

The air left your lungs. You tried to scoff, but the sound stuck in your throat. Not out of fear—never that. You’d boxed better men bloody before ever meeting him. But there was something terrifyingly sincere in the way he said it. As if the words were carved into the very bones of his being.

He leaned in, his nose brushing your temple, his breath hot against your ear. “You will give me many sons,” he murmured. “And daughters with your raven-hair and steel eyes. Winterfell will echo with them. My blood. Our legacy.”

“And if I don’t want to?” you said, voice steady, even if your pulse wasn’t.

He laughed softly—like a man amused by a child’s defiance.

“Then I’ll make you want to.”

You shoved him back hard, turning to meet his gaze with fire in yours. “You want loyalty? Earn it. I am no prize won on a battlefield, Stark.”

His eyes darkened—not with anger, but something worse. Hunger.

“You’re right,” he said. “You’re the war.”

And he would fight you every day, if it meant keeping you close. If it meant no man could look at you without fearing the wolf’s teeth.

He stepped back then, as if granting you a victory. But his gaze lingered, devouring, obsessive.

“I will never let you go,” he said. “Even death won’t take you from me.”

And somehow, deep inside, you knew he meant it.