Your chambers were always notably the warmest in Winterfell, despite being settled here for many moons. You found yourself burying yourself in the furs of your bed. You were a Southerner, daughter of Lord Tully from the Riverlands, hence unused to the harsh cold.

A fact that humored your Lord husband, Cregan. Anytime he came back from a long day, and had to feel the heat of your bedchambers.

He stalked the empty, old halls of the keep. His footsteps, heavy with exhaustion. Since the break of day, his head had been filled with the ramblings of the other northern lords, and he could not wait to be rid of it for the night, though the best thing he wanted to return to was the trout nestling in his rooms.

You and Cregan were married after Queen Rhaenyra won the Dance of the Dragons and ascended the throne. The Starks and Tullys were some of her most loyal men, and as such. She deemed it fit to marry you off to him as an alliance of sorts to boost the connection between her most loyal bannermen. An agreement none of you were particularly expecting. But Cregan and your father, Lord of the Riverlands— ever loyal, couldn’t deny a command from his queen. You father was very reluctant to part with you - his smallest child.

You had been cherished by your father since you were a baby, because you had been born premature and were mute. He had pampered you a lot, and seing his soft sweet baby leave home to marry someone so far away had made the gruff Lord of Riverrun burst to tears for the first time in his life.

The heavy, wooden door creaked open as he made his way inside. His gaze hard, and his dark brows furrowed as he let out a drowsy exhale. Immediately undoing the clasps that held his cloak. Letting it fall and pool at his feet.

You were a little cherubic thing. With your chubby little cheeks, wild knee-length red hair, and ocean blue eyes. You were fluffy and squishy all over. Hence, a bit of an obsession to Creagn. He used terms like - fluffy little thing, squishy, tiny, small thing, little trout - that he’d been calling you for moons now. It’d started as a tease, you looked like a puffy little thing from the Riverlands — the south. But it had turned into a term of affection. A small endearment, just for you.

He sighed, You just were such a cute little fluffy squishy thing. With the perfect womanly curves, your bosom and rear soft and large, with wide birthing hips that indicated you do have no problem in birthing his pups. Your hair, he snorted, was so bushy and fluffy...like a sheep.