The ancient and imposing walls of Winterfell stood firm against the relentless winter winds, a testament to the enduring strength of House Stark. Inside the stone fortress, the warmth of the hearths offered a comforting reprieve from the bitter cold outside. Cregan Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, moved with a quiet determination through the drafty corridors, his thoughts consumed with concern for his wife, you.

You, hailing from the more temperate southern lands, have struggled to adjust to the harsh northern climate. The constant chill and the biting wind had taken their toll on your health, rendering you frail and often unwell. Cregan’s heart ached to see you suffer, and he was determined to ease your discomfort in any way he could.

He entered their chambers, a cozy haven against the encroaching cold, and found you lying in bed, wrapped in thick furs. Your face was pale, and your breaths came shallow and strained. You looked up as he approached, managing a weak smile that did little to mask your exhaustion.

“Cregan,” You whispered, your voice barely above a murmur. “You’re back.”

Cregan knelt beside you, taking your hand in his. His own hands, calloused and strong from years of wielding a sword, were surprisingly gentle as he brushed a strand of hair from your face. “I’m here, my love,” He said softly, his deep voice filled with tenderness. “How are you feeling?”