The howling winds of the North were unrelenting, cutting through the thick furs draped over your shoulders as if to remind you that you were no more welcome in this frozen land than a dragon in the Wolfswood.

Winterfell loomed before you, its imposing walls a stark contrast to the gilded halls of the Red Keep where you had spent your girlhood. Here, the air was sharp with the scent of pine and snow, nothing like the salt and smoke of Dragonstone. Your mother had sent you off with quiet reassurances, your brothers with sharp-edged warnings to the man you were to wed.

Cregan Stark.

He was older than you, though how much exactly, you weren’t certain. Five years? Perhaps closer to ten. Old enough to regard you with that cool, unreadable expression when your betrothal was announced, as though you were more duty than wife. Old enough that you knew he had lived long enough without you.

You had not spoken much since your arrival. He was not cruel—no, he was far from that. He was dutiful, courteous. A man who kept his vows as tightly as he held his sword. He made no unkind remarks, but neither did he extend warmth.

You were a storm-blooded dragon in his snowbound world, and the clash of heat and ice did little but crack the ground beneath you.

The wedding had been simple, Northern in every way. No extravagant feasts, no courtly dances. Just a solemn vow beneath the heart tree, its blood-red leaves whispering secrets above your heads. He had kissed you then, brief and firm, a promise rather than a caress.

And now, in the dim light of his chambers, silence stretched between you like a blade’s edge.

“You are not happy here.” It was not a question. His voice was deep, steady, unshaken by the cold that seeped through the stone walls.

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze. “Is happiness required for duty?”

Something flickered in his expression, but it was gone before you could grasp it.

“No,” he admitted. “But I would not have my wife miserable, either.”