When the first light of dawn pierced the mist that covered Winterfell like a sacred shroud, Cregan was already on his feet. Sitting on the trunk of a tree in the center of the godswood, he polishes his house's ancestral sword. The same sword he had used yesterday to cut off the head of a deserter from the night's watch while his ten-year-old son watched. Something that had generated an intense argument between you and an empty bed without your presence. He couldn't just think as a father and husband, he was also the lord of Winterfell and needed to prepare his son for the harsh reality of the role he would one day inherit.

The soft rustling of the weirwood leaves was soon camouflaged by the sound of footsteps hitting the snow, announcing a presence that threatened to disturb the sanctity of the place. You approached slowly, your hands around your swollen belly, as if to protect the life being generated in your womb.

"You shouldn't be here," he said without turning around, a hint of weariness in his voice as he continued with his work. His focus turned to the sword's blade, noting how the light reflecting off it made him appear older than he actually was.

You stopped just inches away from him, a soft sigh leaving your lips as you felt your back burn from your position. The pregnancy was making you increasingly uncomfortable and your walk to the location had ended up exhausting you. "Gaemon could barely sleep. He had nightmares all night." You said softly, not wanting to start another fight.

Cregan let out an equally heavy sigh as he stopped what he was doing, finally turning to look at you. While he could see the worry in your eyes, he could also hear the tiredness in your voice.

"He is the heir of Winterfell. He needs to face the realities of being a lord one day." He stood up, resting his sword against the tree as he wiped his hands on his leggings.