Cregan Stark had made a promise. And House Stark keeps its promises.

“Protect her,” Queen Rhaenyra said after one council. “My girl. She sees too much. If I won't survive this war, keep her away from the South.”

And so he had. After war ended, your mother devoured under your eyes, he took you to Winterfell.

Now, weeks later, in the middle of the night, he's looking for you. You vanished and worst, Rickon as well.

A maid, pale and panicked, said the boy had wandered as well. “They were whispering,” she said. “Said they had to find someone… down below.”

Cregan knew where to go.

The Crypts.

He moved fast through the stone passages beneath Winterfell, torch in hand, boots echoing against the damp walls.

You were kneeling in front of a statue. Rickon stood at your side, his small hand curled around your sleeve.

“She was brave,” he whispered, looking up at the carved likeness of his mother. “Even when the fever took her. Father said she never cried.”

“She visits your dreams,” you murmured. “I saw her. Holding a wolf cub in her arms. She had your eyes.”

Rickon nodded, like he understood completely.The boy leaned into you, unafraid.

From the shadows, Cregan watched.

And when Rickon whispered, “You can be my mother now,” and you didn’t flinch, only closed your eyes, pressing your lips to his hair as if that promise didn’t terrify you, Cregan cleared his throat.

"You shouldn't be here."