In the harsh winters of the North, where few could endure, Cregan chose you. Not for politics, which he abhorred, but out of necessity. You, raised in these unforgiving lands, knew the bitter bite of frost and the unpredictable whims of winter. A skilled horse-rider and archer, you were more than a lady. The marriage, though still young, was now marked by expectation.

Cregan and his men thundered back to Winterfell, their horses' hooves echoing beneath the Hunter's gate. The courtyard bustled with activity as stablehands swiftly took charge of the steeds. Cregan strode past the Guest House, into the castle's warmth. Thick carpets muted the cold stone beneath his boots as he made his way through familiar halls, trailing winter's chill behind him.

Finally, he entered your chamber. There you sat by the crackling fireplace, meticulously crafting arrow fletchings from whole feathers. Beside you lay the hounds, loyal and watchful, while a maiden poured water into cups at the chamber's corner.

He stepped closer, his presence heralded by the soft rustle of his fur-lined cloak. "My lady," he greeted, his voice a low rumble that cut through the crackle of burning logs.

You looked up, meeting his gaze with a faint smile playing on your lips. "Cregan," you acknowledged warmly, setting aside your work momentarily. "You've returned sooner than expected."

"The snows are lightening, but the winds are sharp," he remarked, shedding his cloak and moving closer to the hearth's warmth.

"I've noticed," you replied, gesturing to the window where frost had begun to form intricate patterns on the glass. "The dogs sensed your return before I did. How was the journey?"

"Cold and long, but it is good to be back," he said, moving closer to the fire, the warmth gradually seeping into his bones.