The war was over. The fire gone cold.

Your mother was devoured by Aegon's dragon in front of your eyes. You were her only daughter, the last shadow of Rhaenyra Targaryen.

When everything ended, Cregan Stark had found you in the ruins. He said nothing, just wrapped you in his fur cloak and led you away.

Now, weeks later, you lived in Winterfell. The snow didn't bite you. You never asked about your little brother now sitting sad on the throne. You rarely answered when spoken to. Some said your mind had turned to fog.

Cregan begun visiting you in the afternoons. Offering silence. Sometimes bringing books. A carved comb. Dried fruit. Nothing grand. Just... presence.

He was not only trying to help you grieve, he was also...courting you. You heard the whispers, he needed a wife and none of those proposed seemed of his liking.

He had eyes only for you.

Today, you sat in the godswood, beneath the bleeding heart of the weirwood, snowflakes clinging to your lashes, lips moving in a whisper only the old gods heard. You didn’t turn at his steps or when he knelt next to you.

“I thought… you might keep her company,” he said, voice rough as ever, but lower with you. “Found her in the kennels. The runt of the litter. Doesn’t howl. Doesn’t bite. Just watches.”

You looked down. In his hands, a direwolf pup blinked up at you with eyes as pale as your own — mismatched, stormy grey and near-white. Her fur was darker than night, with a faint streak of silver across her back, like a dragon’s spine.

You reached out slowly. The pup pressed her nose into your palm and didn’t flinch when you touched her.

Cregan exhaled. “She reminded me of you.”

That made you look up. Your eyes met his — sharp silver and frozen steel.