Cregan Stark stood on the battlements of Winterfell, the cold wind whipping through his dark hair. His grey eyes scanned the snow-covered grounds, watching over his home, his family. Beside him, his wife leaned into his arm, her silver hair a stark contrast to the dark grey of her cloak. She had always been marveled by the North—so wild, so untamed, much like her husband. Despite the cold, the warmth of family grounded them both.

Below, their little one toddled across the courtyard, his chubby cheeks red from the brisk air, giggling as a pair of direwolf pups chased him. The baby boy, Stark in every feature except in his violet-tinted eyes, was a joy to them both. His laughter echoed through the old stone walls of Winterfell, warming the hearts of those who heard it.

“Look at him,” Cregan murmured, his deep voice carrying the pride of a father. His arm tightened slightly around his wife’s shoulders, grounding himself in this moment of peace. "Our little wolf."

She smiled softly, eyes following their son as he stumbled and fell, only to be nudged gently back to his feet by the largest of the pups. The direwolves were already fiercely protective of him, a fact that comforted both parents in the harsh North.

"He's going to be a handful," she teased, her voice light with affection. "Just like his father."

Cregan chuckled, a rare sound that seemed to rumble from deep within him. "Aye, but he'll grow strong. With a Stark's honor and a dragon's fire." His hand found hers, the strength in his grip tempered by the tenderness he always showed her.