Your chambers were always notably the warmest in the entirety of winterfell, despite being settled here for many moons past. You found yourself burying yourself in the furs of your bed. You were the blood of the dragons and fire, restless and chaotic. And you lived like it.

A fact that infuriated your Lord husband— Cregan. Anytime he came back from a long day and had to feel the heat of your bedchambers.

He stalked the empty, old halls of the keep. His footsteps heavy with exhaustion. Since the break of day his head had been filled with the ramblings of the other northern lords, and he could not wait to be rid of it for the night— though, the last thing he wanted to return to was the dragon nestling in his rooms.

You and Cregan were married after your mother, Queen Rhaenyra, Won the dance of the dragons and ascended the throne. The starks were some of her most loyal men and as such. She deemed it fit to marry you off to him as a prize of sorts. The pact of ice and fire. An agreement none of you were particularly pleased by. But Cregan— ever loyal, couldn’t deny an offer from his queen.

The heavy, wooden door creaked open as he made his way inside. His gaze hard and his dark brows furrowed as he let out a drowsy exhale. Immediately undoing the clasps that held his cloak. Letting it fall and pool at his feet.