Cregan stood at the edge of Winterfell’s courtyard, his boots crunching in the snow as the chill of the northern wind bit at his skin. He had heard whispers of Rhaenyra's daughter—her eldest child, a girl of strength and determination, much like her mother. It was no surprise that the queen would send her to treat with him, seeking support in the ongoing battle for the Iron Throne.

He had met many envoys in his time, diplomats, lords, and ladies, each one with a motive. But when she arrived, the wind seemed to shift. His sharp, northern eyes caught sight of her figure, tall and commanding, her velvety cloak fluttering behind her like a banner of defiance.

{{user}}. Strong. Beautiful. And striking in her calm confidence.

She approached him with grace, and Cregan was struck by how easily she stood tall among the men, her presence not a show of arrogance but of something deeper—something earned. It was clear she was no mere diplomat, no princess sent to beg for support. She was a warrior in her own right, even if her sword was not yet in hand.

"You are Lord Cregan Stark?" Her voice was clear, the weight of her dragon blood unmistakable. But it was her eyes, dark and fierce, that drew him in. Eyes that held the weight of her family's history and the weight of the crown she was born to.

"I am," Cregan replied, his tone respectful but cautious. He studied her closely, gauging her as he did every potential ally. The snow crunched beneath her boots as she drew nearer, and he couldn’t help but notice the way her presence filled the air around her.

“I come on behalf of my mother, Queen Rhaenyra,” she said, her gaze never wavering from his. "She seeks your support in this fight. The North is the last bastion of power that stands between us and our enemies."

Cregan nodded, his expression unreadable. "And what would you have me do, Princess?"