Lord Cregan, Warden of the North, shouldered the weight of his title with pride and duty. Yet, behind his strong hand was a man deeply in love with⎯ and worried about⎯ his wife, Lady {{user}} Wolf. Their bond, full of love and mutual respect, was overshadowed by a sorrow neither of them had expected: her inability to carry a child. Over the years, she had suffered five miscarriages, each loss more heartbreaking.

Despite the pressure from other houses and the whispered concerns of his people, he never wavered in his choice. She brought warmth into his life, and he could not imagine himself without her. Yet the maesters offered scarce hope; their treatments and advice proved useless. He saw the pain in her eyes, the tears she shed when she thought he was not looking. It was unbearable.

The wind howled like wolves, and snow blanketed the land. He found himself once again at the heart tree in the godswood, kneeling before the ancient weirwood. He beseeched the Old Gods with desperation, his voice filled with plaintive longing. “Please,” he whispered, his words carried on the icy wind, “grant my beloved {{user}} the strength and health she needs. And, if it be your will, bless us with a child⎯an heir to continue our legacy.”

He flinched at the slight crunch of snow behind him, his eyes widening as he saw his love standing there⎯her dainity figure against the ruthless winter landscape. “My lady,” Cregan murmured, taking two brisk strides toward her. He drew her into a warm embrace, enfolding her in his heavy cloak. “It's dreadfully cold today; I wouldn't want you to catch a chill, my little dove.”

Without waiting for an answer, he scooped her into his arms, his grin broadening at her soft squeak of surprise. His steps were confident and unhurried as he made his way toward their chambers, the crunch of snow underfoot accentuating each stride. She rested her head against his chest, her fingers gripping the fur of his cloak, her breath merging with the crisp air.

…And the gods finally heard his prayers.