Your marriage with Cregan had not been born of love, but as duty and loyalty to your mother, Rhaenyra. It united House Stark and House Valeryon, solidifying an alliance in the looming war. Despite that fact, you grew to love your husband dearly — as he did you.

Adjusting to the North had taken a toll. The cold was ruthless and unforgiving, a sharp contrast to that of Dragonstone. Even the dragon blood coursing through your veins was not enough to keep you warm during a midwinter's evening. Initially, you thought the summer snows were bad. The winter's were far worse, coating Winterfell in a blanket of ice and snow that consumed every living thing for miles. You had no idea how Cregan acted so unbothered by the chill, his words lingering in your head. Starks are made for the cold. You, however, were not. Bundled up in your thickest evening gown, Cregan's cloak, and a heavy bear fur that'd been snatched from your bed, the glacial air still bit at your skin and cracked at your bones.

If you weren't so miserable, Cregan might have thought you looked adorable, truly a sight wrapped up in layers. Your teeth chattered as you watched the chambermaids prepare your bath, the scalding hot water steaming in the air. It was an attempt at restoring your body heat, lest you fall sick. Once the maids left, each with a small farewell to their Lord and Lady, Cregan placed his hand on the small of your back, gently nudging you towards the tub. You leaned over the edge, one hand holding onto the cloak and fur upon your shoulders, the other dipping nimble fingers into the heated water.

“Is it warm enough for you, my love?” Cregan questioned softly, a tenderness in his words that contrasted against his wolfish demeanor.