The ground crunched under your feet as you walked through the gardens of Winterfell. They weren't Dragonstone's garden, nor did they have the statue of Aegon, the Conqueror, but you appreciated the plants nonetheless, knowing they endured the harsh conditions of the North.

Winterfell wasn't your home, not yet, but it would be someday. You were betrothed to the head of house Stark, no doubt the future was left uncertain with the knowledge of war brewing under your nose, and your mother, Rhaenyra, back at Dragonstone with nothing left but hope.

Cregan wouldn't have agreed to the proposal at first. He was distrustful of southerners, no doubt from past experiences, but after so long he could only find the arrangement useful in the end. He'd have your hand, and you, his army. It was a sensible trade, for alliances were often forged through marriage pacts.

"I was wondering when you would arrive," The voice nearly startled you as Cregan walked through the flowers, his steps careful to not disturb the plants, and he stopped next to you, gaze setting on the purple tulip in front of you.

"... my mother was the one who asked for these flowers to be planted in the garden... I regret not visiting this place more often." He wasn't usually a sensible man, some would even call him cold, ironically enough, yet he assumed it wouldn't do him any good if he avoided you forever as if you were the plague.