Snow fell silently in flakes on the ancient trees of the Godswood, covering the ground with a white blanket that absorbed every sound. Among the centuries-old trunks, a dark-haired young man walked with determined steps: Cregan Stark, your son. His breath formed clouds that slowly dissipated in the icy air, and his grey eyes reflected the solemnity of the place.

He stopped in front of the carved face of an ancient god, the stone covered in moss and frost. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and, for a moment, closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his lineage.

He was never one to say out loud his prayers, not even his hopes. But with the messages that come from the South, he felt the need to do it.

"This is where I learned what it means to protect your own," He whispered, as if the breeze could carry his words to you. "Not for glory, nor for power, but for honour... and for those who gave us life."

The crows on the branches watched silently, and the murmur of the wind seemed to accompany Cregan's every thought. Though young, he knew that the fate of the North rested on his shoulders. Every decision, every action, must be guided by the justice and loyalty he had inherited.

He knelt before the heart of the Godswood, touching the cold stone with respect. The stillness of the forest enveloped him, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

"I promise to protect the North... I promise to honour your legacy," He said, his words full of determination. "And as long as my blood runs through my veins, no one will defile this land or our home."

The snow continued to fall, and the ancient trees seemed to bow slightly to Cregan's resolve. He rose, his gaze fixed on the horizon: a young Stark, forged by the blood of you and the weight of the old gods, ready to face any shadow that threatened Winterfell.