The great hall of Winterfell was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the hearth and the murmurs of servants moving about their tasks. Cregan Stark stood near the carved pillars, his broad frame cloaked in furs, but his attention was elsewhere—fixed on you.

You sat near the fire, Rickon curled against your chest, his tiny fists clutching at your gown as though he feared you might vanish if he let go. His dark curls were mussed from sleep, and his little face was pressed into your shoulder. You rocked him gently, whispering something soft, your voice carrying the warmth of a lullaby even if he was too young to understand the words.

Cregan had always thought his son a quiet boy, but that was only true when you were near. The moment you left, Rickon would cry, reaching out his tiny arms as though only you could make the world safe again. He was not wrong, Cregan thought. You were warmth in a castle built of cold stone. You were the sun in the midst of Winterfell’s grey skies.

He hadn’t expected this—any of it. His first wife, gentle and sweet, had been gone for nearly two years now, lost to childbirth. He had mourned her, but theirs had been a marriage of duty more than love, and grief had been dulled by the need to rule and to raise Rickon alone. When he wed you, he hadn’t thought love would bloom again. But then, love had not asked for permission. It had simply taken root when he saw how you held his son, not as if he were an obligation but as if he were your own flesh and blood.

Rickon stirred, his small hand curling into your hair, and you smiled down at him, the expression so tender that Cregan felt his heart tighten. You hadn’t noticed him watching; you rarely did when you were with Rickon, so entirely devoted to the boy that you seemed to forget the rest of the world.

“He’s gotten too used to your arms,” Cregan said finally, his voice carrying across the hall.

Your head lifted, startled, but the corner of his mouth curved into a small smile. “He refuses to sleep otherwise,” you replied softly, shifting Rickon slightly to keep him comfortable. “It’s as though he knows when I try to lay him down.”

Cregan chuckled low in his throat and crossed the hall, the sound of his boots echoing on the stone floor. He stopped beside you, looking down at his son. Rickon stirred again but did not cry—not with you there. “You’ve bewitched him,” he said.