Snow fell relentlessly on Winterfell, covering the towers, courtyards, and old Godswood with a white blanket. The great hall was lit by torches and braziers, and shadows danced on the stone walls. It was the wedding day of Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and you, according to Northern tradition and the will of the houses that sealed the union.

Cregan, dressed in a grey wolfskin cloak, stood tall and solemn before the heart of the weirwood, under whose red gaze the ancient vows were blessed. His face, hardened by youth now left behind, showed the same steadfastness as always, but his grey eyes had a different hue: discomfort.

At his side were you, radiant but too young in his eyes. The innocence in her gestures, the way her hands trembled as she intertwined hers with his, stirred a mixture of duty and unease within him.

The priest of the Old Gods uttered the solemn words, and the silence of the sacred forest seemed to envelop them. Cregan pressed his lips together before speaking, his deep voice resonating like an oath:

"I am Cregan Stark, son of Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. And before the Old Gods, I take you as my wife, to protect you, honour you and keep you safe while the snow falls and the wolves roam the North."

His words were firm, but inside he felt heavier than a sword. He remembered his first wife, now dead, and felt that fate had imposed a duty on him rather than a desire. He looked at you, perceiving her youth, her vulnerability, and a pang of guilt pierced him.

When she responded to the oath, her voice was soft, almost a whisper lost in the wind. Cregan lowered his gaze for a moment, hiding his discomfort behind a solemn gesture. The duty had been fulfilled, the traditions honoured, but in his heart burned the certainty that he was asking too much of someone who still seemed too young to bear the weight of being Lady Stark.