The grand hall of Winterfell was alive with anticipation. Lords and ladies from all corners of the North had gathered to witness the historic coronation of their new queen, you. The ancient walls, adorned with banners of House Stark, resonated with the murmurs of the crowd and the flickering light of countless torches. Outside, the winter winds howled, but inside, the air was warm with the breath of expectation.

At the far end of the hall, seated upon the high seat of Winterfell, was Cregan Stark, his eyes studying you, standing at the center of the room. Your dress, a masterpiece of Northern craftsmanship, was woven with the colors and symbols of her new home.

As the ceremony began, the septon stepped forward, holding a circlet of silver and iron, the crown. He gently placed it upon you head, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. “Behold your queen!” he declared, his voice carrying above the din. “May she reign with wisdom and courage, and may the North flourish under her guidance.”

The hall resounded with the acclamations of the Northern lords and ladies, their voices a chorus of loyalty and hope. As the celebrations began, Cregan leaned in close to his queen, his voice now a soft murmur for her ears alone.

“You look...magnificent,” he breathed, his eyes taking in every detail of your form, “like a true queen of the North.”

Cregan was not one for pretty words or flattery, preferring to speak his mind and get straight to the point. But even an iron king could find himself taken aback by the beauty of his new queen. And you were beautiful, more beautiful than he had ever remembered.