You were Rhaenyra’s daughter — the last, the quiet one, the survivor.

Now you lived in Winterfell, where snow softened the world and silence was a kindness. There was no trace of your mother’s court here. No Valyrian steel on proud display, no smell of ash in the air. Only cold stone and colder eyes.

Tonight, the great hall rang with song and laughter. Northern lords drank deep, their voices thick with mead and good cheer. You sat beside Cregan, a wife in name, your hands folded in your lap like a girl at her first feast.

They toasted your union. They toasted the future.

You felt their stares like falling snow—light, but unrelenting. They wondered what kind of bride the dragon queen’s daughter made. If you spoke. If you bled. If you’d bear.

You said nothing.

Until Rickon came running, wild-eyed and flushed from dancing. “Mother,” he called you without shame or hesitation, tugging at your hand. “Look at me!” You smiled watching him dance for you.

And then, Cregan leaned closer now, his voice low and warm beside your ear. “Come. There’s something I want to show you.”

His hand hovered in the air, not touching yet — waiting.