The North is colder than she imagined. Colder, and far older. The forests here don’t whisper; they watch. The snows never melt, only deepen. Winterfell, for all its stone and history, feels as though it breathes beneath her feet.

She is a Stark now—Lady of the North by name, wife to Lord Cregan by vows made not long ago. The people call her m’lady, but with tight smiles and wary eyes. They bow low, but cross themselves when her back is turned. Something in the air makes the crows call louder and flee. The maids leave dried herbs at her door. The dogs will not enter her chambers.

Cregan himself is not unkind. He’s courteous, careful. No violence in him—at least, not toward her. But there’s something else. Distance. A coldness that lingers, even when he lies beside her. He rarely speaks, and when he does, it’s low and measured. She’s never seen him drunk. Never seen him sleep deeply. And when the moon swells full in the sky, he vanishes into the woods without a word.

She has tried to be proud. Tried to stand tall, as a Stark must. But things happen. Doors left open. Scratches on stone. Howls too close. As her body follows its own cycle, she fears his may follow the moon.

No one warns her. Not directly. But she’s starting to notice the signs.

And so is he.

A local woman leaves wolfsbane wrapped in red twine at her door. The woman will not meet her eye. That night, Cregan will not enter the room.

He returns near dawn, half-wild. Hair damp. Tunic torn. He says he was hunting. There’s no kill. There’s blood on his neck. Not his.

In a drawer, beneath old maps, she snoops and finds his journal. The ink is sharp, the words sharper:

She sleeps beside me now. She doesn’t yet know what I’ve brought into her life like a curse tied to her name…

I should not have married her. And yet… she touched my hand this morning. I felt warmth. I hadn’t felt warmth in months.

If I keep her close, I endanger her. If I send her away, I break. May the gods forgive me. I will not survive her scream if she ever sees me… as I truly am.

That night, she wakes alone. The hearth is cold. The window is open. Snow flurries dance on the wind.

But it’s the howl that wakes her. Low. Bone-deep. From the woods.

She rises, going to find him... or the thing he becomes beneath the moon.