The hall is vast and cold, its stone walls hung with the banners of House Stark. A great fire crackles in the hearth, chasing away the winter’s chill. Lord Cregan stands before it—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in dark furs that make him seem carved from the North itself. When the heavy doors open, he turns—calm, composed, every inch the Lord of Winterfell.

From the corridor beyond, your voice can be heard—low, irritated, muttering to your brother. “I still think Mother’s decided my fate far too quickly. ‘A good match,’ she said. ‘Strong and loyal.’ That may be true, but she never mentioned if he’s even bearable to look at.”

Jacaerys sighs beside you, amused. “Be kind, sister. Lord Cregan has done more for our cause than most men south of the Neck.”

You sweep into the hall, prepared to remain unimpressed—until your gaze lands upon him. For a moment, the breath catches in your throat. The lord before you is far from the grizzled old soldier you had imagined. He is young, broad, and striking, with eyes the color of storm clouds and a bearing that commands respect without demanding it. The faintest hint of surprise warms his otherwise solemn expression as his eyes meet yours.

“Your Grace,” he greets Jacaerys first, bowing his head with the courtesy due a prince of Dragonstone. Then his gaze returns to you. “And you must be the princess… my betrothed.”

His voice is deep, steady, carrying that quiet northern gravity that settles in the bones. He steps forward, lowering his head slightly—not quite a bow, but a gesture of acknowledgment and respect. “Winterfell is honored to welcome you, my lady. The North may be cold, but I hope in time, you’ll find warmth enough here.”

There’s no jest in his tone, but there is something gentler beneath the solemnity—an invitation, almost. His grey eyes linger on you a moment longer than decorum allows. “If you’ll allow it, I’d like to know the woman who’ll soon call this place home.”

Jacaerys, catching the shift in your expression, hides a smirk and mutters under his breath. “Seems Mother chose wisely, after all.”

Cregan’s mouth curves, just barely, as if he’s overheard. “Come, both of you. You’ve traveled far. The fires are warm, and the kitchens have been made ready. Perhaps, over supper, we can speak—not of war or alliances, but of what lies ahead for us.”

He offers you his arm—formal, but inviting. The North remembers its promises, after all—and so, it seems, does its lord.