When the first contraction came, the snow had only just begun to fall on Winterfell’s damp ground. Now it was thick enough to cover a man’s ankles, and you were still inside, in the small chamber beside the one you shared with Cregan, obeying the frantic calls of midwives and septas, crying out in pain, doing everything you could to bring his child into the world.

By the hearth, Cregan poured himself a fifth cup of wine, waiting with all the patience he could muster. He had always known the child would be large. He was a large man himself, broader and taller than most northern lords, able to wield the greatsword Ice as though it were no heavier than a knight’s blade. The maester had warned him once. Your smaller figure, narrow hips, yet carrying a big babe. But Cregan had only smiled then, proud of the strength his blood carried.

Now, as your screams echoed through the stone keep, that pride turned to guilt. His size, his strength, the very things that had made his name, felt like a curse. He slammed the cup against the stone wall, watching it break into pieces. The crash was swallowed by the storm outside and your cries within.

Beyond the door, he could hear the midwives urging you to change position, perhaps for the third time already. Then came your cry, faint, broken, weaker than before. Panic gripped his chest, his mind filling with what-ifs, each one darker than the last. He rose from the chair, half ready to storm in, yet stopped himself. He could not risk frightening you further, not when you were already fighting so hard for both your lives.

The door opened. A Septa stood there, her fingers stained crimson, voice barely a whisper. “My lord… you should come.”

He stepped inside, and the world seemed to shrink around him. The chamber was in chaos. Air reeked of blood and sweat, furs on the bed were soaked dark. Two women held you by the arms, keeping you upright, hoping the child might descend. But your strength was gone. Your head hung low, your lips pale, your skin slick with cold sweat that had already soaked through your linen shift.

The Septa came closer, her tone hushed so you would not hear. “She is weakening, my lord. The babe is too large. Maybe all we can do now… is pray.”