Snow beats against the windows of Winterfell, driven by a wind that seems never to cease. You have been under this roof for two months, two months as Cregan Stark's wife, and yet his presence still feels like a wall: firm, imposing, but distant.

Tonight, the discomfort of your own body weighs heavier than the stones of the castle. The warmth of the blankets is not enough to ease the dull pain in your womb, nor the weakness left by the cycle that each moon demands of you. In your solitude, everything seems bigger: the vastness of Winterfell, the silence of the North, the icy distance of your husband.

The door to your chambers opens without warning, and the creak of the wood announces the tall figure of Cregan. The fire in the fireplace illuminates his broad shoulders, his serious expression, his grey eyes that always seem to read more than you let show. He says nothing at first, as if weighing the weight of the air before entering.

"The maester told me of your discomfort," He finally breaks the silence, his voice low and grave. "I thought... you should have company."

He approaches slowly, placing a steaming bowl on the table beside your bed. It is broth, simple, with herbs from the North that ease pain and warm the blood. You did not expect such attention, much less that he would bring it himself.

When he tries to reach you with a thicker blanket, you notice how his hand barely brushes your shoulder. It is not a passionate or possessive gesture, but a clumsy one, laden with a duty that seems stronger than any emotion he allows himself to show.

"You are my wife," He says, as if that explanation were enough to justify his presence, his care, even his discomfort. "And in the North, we take care of our own."

The direwolf, lying in the corner of the room, raises its head and watches the scene with yellow eyes, like a silent guardian. You feel that, for the first time in weeks, the distance between you is narrowing just a little, not because of passion or promises, but because of the simple humanity of being seen, cared for.

He stands rigidly, as if unsure whether to stay or leave. Finally, he sits down on the chair next to your bed, silently. The fire crackles. Winter howls outside. And although his gestures are abrupt, almost awkward, there is something about his presence that weighs more than any words.