The snow melted. The rivers thawed. The seasons changed, and still, Cregan Stark remained—right where you left him.

Winterfell had always been cold, but without you, it was unbearable. The halls felt emptier, the hearths dimmer, and the howling wind outside seemed to mock him with whispers of your name. He had been raised to endure, to withstand the harshest winters, but nothing had prepared him for the bitter frost left in your absence.

At first, he told himself he would not wait. That time would dull the ache, that duty would steady his restless hands. But every time he stepped into the courtyard, he saw you there—laughing as the snow tangled in your hair. Every time he sat at the long table, he could still hear your voice echoing through the Great Hall.

He had let you go. He had watched you turn away, had swallowed every word he wanted to say. He had not stopped you, though the urge had clawed at his throat, though his heart had screamed at him to chase after you. Because he knew you had to leave.

And still, he waited.

When spring arrived and the first buds of green pushed through the frost, he thought perhaps it was a sign. That you would return with the thaw, like the rivers that always found their way back to the sea. But the days stretched on, and you did not come.

By summer, he stopped searching the gates at every arrival, stopped pausing when he heard footsteps in the halls, stopped expecting to hear your voice carried by the wind.

But he did not stop waiting. Not truly.

And when the first snowflake of winter drifted from the sky, landing in his open palm, he felt it settle into his chest like a quiet, familiar ache. The North was unforgiving. But Cregan had never feared the cold.

“The snow melted, the rivers thawed, and still, I remain—right where you left me.”