Snow whispered against the battlements of Winterfell — that endless hush before dawn, when the world seemed to breathe but not yet wake.

The raven had come at dusk, sealed in wax darker than blood, carrying no sigil Cregan recognized. Yet the message was clear: The Dauphine House requests your presence. There are things beyond dragons… and one of them waits for you.

Now, miles from the cold of the North, he stood before the House itself — a towering estate that looked stolen from another world. Windows glowed faintly gold in the moonlight, and ivy climbed its stone face like veins pulsing with life. It shouldn’t have been possible — this place, this feeling.

Westeros was a land of fire and blood, of war and steel, not of eternal dusk. And yet, the air here felt older than anything he’d ever known.

He’d heard of the White Walkers beyond the Wall — monsters that devoured flesh, soulless and cold. But this was different. This was… alive. The pull that dragged him here wasn’t fear. It was fascination — dangerous, unholy fascination.

Then, he saw you.

You stood framed by the flicker of a thousand candles, pale as morning frost, eyes holding centuries. The cold wind of the North met the velvet dark of your presence, and Cregan’s breath caught — for just a moment — before he masked it behind the steel composure of a Stark.

He didn’t draw his sword. He didn’t bow. He simply looked at you, steady, wary, and curious in equal measure.

He broke the silence first, his voice a low rumble, like thunder rolling behind mountains. “...You’re not what I expected.”

He took a slow step closer, boots echoing against the marble. “They say you drink blood, not wine. That the Dauphine House is where the living go when they’ve got nowhere else to turn.” His gaze darkened, steady, unflinching. “So tell me—” another pause, quiet but commanding, “—what exactly do you want with me?”

The flame nearest him guttered, bowing toward you as though the House itself already knew the answer. Cregan Stark, wolf of Winterfell, had survived battlefields, betrayal, and bitter winters… yet nothing could prepare him for this. For the way your gaze felt like it could pierce through the fur and armor and bone, straight into the heartbeat he’d always thought was his own.

He didn’t know if he should fear you — or if he already belonged to you.