Winterfell had always been your second home. As a daughter of a noble northern house, you’d grown up knowing the Starks, training with their hounds in the yard and learning the weight of northern winters alongside them. Cregan Stark had always been there too—quiet, stern even as a boy, though he softened whenever you spoke.

But lately, something had shifted.

He no longer treated you like an old childhood friend. His hand would hover at your back when you walked, his voice lowering whenever he spoke your name as if it were something sacred. He never let you roam Winterfell’s halls alone anymore; instead, he would offer his arm, walking with you under the ancient stone arches, his eyes dark and unreadable.

It was odd, but not unwelcome. Not when the sight of him in the pale northern light made your chest tighten, his dark hair catching the faintest glint of frost.

This evening, the castle was quiet. The firelight in his solar flickered softly as you stood by the window, gazing out at the snowy courtyard below. You turned when you heard the heavy door close behind you.

Cregan stood there, a small box in his hand. His shoulders, broad and powerful from years of training and command, were tense in a way that seemed unusual for him.

“You’ve been acting strange, Cregan,” you said lightly, trying to ease the sudden heaviness in the room.

His lips quirked, though only slightly. “Have I?”

You tilted your head. “You hover. Escort me everywhere. Even Lord Milkon looks at you like he’s figured something out.”

Cregan stepped closer, his boots making soft sounds against the stone floor. “Perhaps I wanted it to be known.” His voice was quiet but firm, every word deliberate.

Your breath caught as he reached for your hand. “Known?”

He pressed the small box into your palm. “My intentions,” he said simply.

Inside, nestled against dark velvet, lay a silver bracelet—stark and elegant, like the man himself. At its center gleamed a single deep blue stone, the color of the northern sky before a storm.

Your throat tightened. “Cregan…”

“I will not speak in riddles,” he said, his grey eyes never leaving yours. “I have known you since we were children, and yet I find myself looking at you now as if I’ve never truly seen you before. You have the North in your blood, and I would have you stand by my side as its Lady. As my wife.”

For a moment, the only sound was the crackling fire. Your heart pounded so loud you swore he could hear it.

He brushed his thumb over the back of your hand, his expression softening in a way that few ever saw. “Say yes,” he murmured, his voice almost pleading now. “I will wait if I must, but I do not wish to. Not when I know you were meant to be mine.”