"How was your journey, Princess?"

Aelora blinked.

She turned her head, studying him closely for the first time.

The dim light of the torches cast shadows over his sharp features, his gray eyes calm-but not dull.

There was something there.

Something careful.

Something assessing her just as much as she was assessing him.

She tilted her head slightly, swirling the wine in her goblet. "Cold."

Cregan's lips twitched. "I imagine it was."

Aelora arched a brow. "Is the North ever warm?"

"No."

Aelora hummed, bringing her goblet to her lips. "A pity."

Cregan studied her.

Then-

"You've never been this far from home before."

It wasn't a question.

Aelora lowered her goblet. "No."

A pause.

Then-

"Does it frighten you?"

Aelora laughed.

A real, soft laugh-quick and sharp, the kind that cut through the stillness of the great hall.

Several heads turned.

She felt their gazes.

But she kept her eyes on Cregan.

"Frighten me?" she echoed, amusement dancing in her violet eyes. "Lord Stark, I have a dragon. What in all the Seven Hells do you think frightens me?"

Cregan's lips curled.

A real smile.

Small. Subtle. But there.

"Good," he murmured. "It shouldn't."

Aelora smirked. "And why is that?"

Cregan held her gaze.

"Because you are in Winterfell now," he said simply. "And here, fear is wasted breath."

Aelora's fingers tightened slightly around her goblet.

Because that-

That was the first thing he had said that she almost respected.

She let the words sit between them for a moment, rolling them over in her mind.

Then-

"You are my age."

Cregan blinked, clearly not expecting the sudden shift.

Then-

He sighed. "So you've heard."

Aelora huffed a laugh, resting her chin on her palm. "Heard? I nearly choked when I found out."

Cregan smirked, shaking his head slightly. "Did it disappoint you?"

Aelora hummed, pretending to consider. "I had imagined my husband would be older, wiser, with a great beard and a sour temper."

Cregan chuckled. "I can grow the beard if it will ease your disappointment."

Aelora smirked. "Let's see how well you rule first."

Cregan grinned. "Fair enough."

Aelora took another sip of her wine, letting herself settle into this conversation, letting herself study him for who he was-not the husband she had been forced into, not the boy still under his uncle's rule, but him.

And so far-

So far, she did not hate him.

That was something.

They spoke as the meal carried on, exchanging words like a game of cyvasse, testing the edges of one another's sharpness.

"You must miss your home," Cregan said after a while.

Aelora glanced at him, amused. "Are you trying to make me homesick, Lord Stark?"

Cregan gave a half-smile. "No. I only wonder if you left anything behind that you truly cared for."

Aelora considered that.

She thought of King's Landing, of its golden towers and endless whispers.

She thought of Aemond, his single violet eye burning with anger for her, grief for her absence.

She thought of Nightfury, soaring through the skies behind her carriage, following her into a future neither of them had chosen.

She thought of sweet Heleana who looked at her as if she knew everything she did not know.

And then she thought of Aegon, of Alicent, of the father who had signed her fate with an ink-stained hand.

She took another slow sip of her wine. "Very few things."

Cregan did not press.

"And you?" she asked, arching a brow. "Have you ever left your home?"

Cregan shook his head. "Never. The North is my place, my duty."

Aelora smirked. "How loyal of you."

"How pragmatic," he corrected, cutting a piece of roasted meat. "The North is not like the South. We do not play the same games."

Aelora hummed. "Perhaps not. But you are playing one now, aren't you?"

Cregan met her gaze, his expression calm but unreadable. "You are not a game, Princess."

Aelora tilted her head. "No?"

Cregan shook his head. "No. You are my future wife."

She studied him then, watching the way his fingers curled around his goblet, the way his shoulders remained relaxed even as his eyes watched her carefully.

He was not like Aegon.

Not like the men at court who spoke pretty words and hid behind wine and indulgence.

He was steadier than them. Sharper.

And she still wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

As the meal continued, the conversations around them shifted, grew louder, but her presence was still felt.

She could hear the whispers, the hushed voices of the northern lords speaking about her, her dragon, her family.

She could feel their stares, cautious and distant, unsure what to make of her.

Cregan leaned slightly closer, dropping his voice just low enough for her to hear.

"You unsettle them."

Aelora smirked, swirling the wine in her goblet. "Good."

Cregan huffed a quiet laugh. "I thought you might say that."

Aelora turned toward him slightly, tilting her head. "Do I unsettle you, my lord?"

Cregan's lips twitched. "Not yet."

Aelora's smirk widened. "Then I shall have to try harder."

Cregan lifted his goblet in a silent toast. "I look forward to it."

Aelora clinked her goblet against his, the sound sharp, ringing through the hall like the first strike of steel on steel.

A challenge.

A promise.

And as she took another sip of her wine, she realized-

She was not the only one enjoying this game.

Cregan studied her, the flickering torchlight casting a soft glow over his sharp features, his calm gray eyes steady as he took another sip of his wine.

Then-

"Are your chambers to your liking, Princess?"

Aelora let out a quiet chuckle, swirling the deep red liquid in her goblet before taking a slow sip.

"You should have asked me that at the beginning of the conversation, my lord," she teased.

Cregan's lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough. "Perhaps. But I thought it polite to wait."

Aelora tilted her head, watching him over the rim of her goblet. "Polite, was it?"

"Or strategic."

"A clever man, then."

"I try."

Aelora smirked, leaning back slightly in her chair. "They are fine. A tad cold, but I can manage."

Cregan nodded. "It is Winterfell. Cold is inescapable."

"So I have gathered."

He considered her words for a moment, then added-

"After we are married, you will inherit the chambers of the Lady of Winterfell."

Aelora raised a brow.

"In them," he continued, taking another drink, "is the warmest chamber in the palace. I'll make sure it's ready for you by then."

Aelora studied him, searching for any trace of mockery, of false kindness, of hidden meaning.

But there was none.

He was simply stating a fact-as if her comfort mattered, as if he had already accepted that this would be her home, whether she liked it or not.

For a moment, she did not know how to respond.

So she only took another sip of wine, let the heat of it warm her from the inside.

And then-

"How thoughtful of you, my lord."

Cregan met her gaze, and for the first time that night, his smile was real.

"I try."

Aelora took another slow sip of her wine, letting the warmth spread through her, but it did little to fight off the chill that lingered in her bones.

She had noticed it immediately-the strange contradiction of Winterfell.

Outside, the air was biting, the wind howling through the walls, but inside...

Inside, the castle was warm.

Not just from the great hearths burning in every hall, but something deeper, something beneath the stone itself.

She glanced at Cregan, curiosity flickering in her violet eyes. "How come the palace is so much warmer inside than out?"

Cregan didn't even pause before answering. "Winterfell was built upon hot springs, my lady. It keeps us from freezing in winter."

Aelora's brow lifted slightly. "Hot springs?"

"Aye," he nodded. "The water runs beneath the walls, keeping the keep warm even in the worst of winters. The godswood has its own spring, the steam rising even in the snow."

Aelora hummed, swirling her wine in her goblet. "I never knew that."

Cregan smirked slightly. "There is much you don't know about Winterfell, Princess."

Aelora tilted her head. "Then I hope you are a patient teacher, Lord Stark."

Cregan took a sip of his wine before replying. "One day, I'll take you to the springs. They're comfortable and warm, perfect for a bath and relaxing after a long day."

Aelora chuckled softly, leaning just a little closer, her voice turning silky and teasing. "And will my lord be joining me in the bath?"

Cregan's goblet paused just before reaching his lips.

His gray eyes flicked to her, unreadable for a fraction of a second-

And then he smirked.

A slow, wolfish smirk.

"Would you like me to?"

Aelora felt heat bloom at the base of her spine, not from the castle's warmth, but from something else entirely.

She had been prepared for stiff northern politeness, for a man who would flinch at such teasing.

She had not been expecting this.

She smirked back, taking a slow sip of wine. "I suppose I'll have to decide when the time comes."

Cregan leaned back in his chair, pleased, watching her like he had already won something. "Then I shall look forward to your decision."

Aelora exhaled, amused, intrigued, and just slightly warmed by more than just the wine.

Perhaps the North was not as cold as she had thought.

She took another slow sip of wine, letting the moment stretch between them, heavy with something unspoken.

Cregan's smirk remained, his gray eyes sharp, watching her with the quiet confidence of a man who was not easily unsettled.

A rare thing.

Most men at court flushed, stammered, faltered when she toyed with them, when she let her voice dip into something sultry, teasing, when she looked at them just so.

But Cregan Stark?

Cregan Stark merely matched her pace, unshaken, unmoved-but not uninterested.

A dangerous man, then.

Not in the way of her brothers, not cruel like Aegon, not sharp-edged and bitter like Aemond.

But dangerous in the way of steady hands and quiet strength.

In the way of a wolf who did not chase-but waited, patient, knowing that eventually, all things came to him.

Aelora hummed, tapping a single finger against the stem of her goblet. "I had heard the Starks were honorable men."

Cregan took a slow sip of his wine. "We are."

"And yet..." she mused, tilting her head, "my lord does not seem entirely opposed to the idea of joining his betrothed in a bath."

Cregan exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head slightly. "Honor and desire are not the same thing, Princess."

Aelora smirked. "No? And which does my lord feel now?"

Cregan held her gaze, letting the weight of her question settle between them.

Then-

"Both."

Aelora's breath caught.

Just for a moment.

Not because of the words themselves-no, she had heard similar things whispered in ballrooms, spoken with drunken confidence by men who thought their longing mattered to her.

But Cregan was different.

Because he did not say it with the hungry desperation of a man trying to win her favor.

He said it like it was fact.

Like it was as undeniable as the cold outside these walls, as simple as the rising of the sun.

Aelora studied him, searching for the game in his words, waiting for the hint of arrogance or false charm that southern men so often wore like armor.

But there was none.

Only certainty.

A slow smirk curled at her lips, one of genuine amusement.

She leaned forward just slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "If you were a courtier in King's Landing, Lord Stark, I might think you were trying to seduce me."

Cregan chuckled, deep and quiet, shaking his head. "If I were trying, Princess, you would know it."

Aelora inhaled sharply.

Gods.

Aegon was a drunk with a crown he did not want. Aemond was a sword looking for a throat to cut.

But Cregan Stark?

Cregan Stark was something else entirely.

And that was...

Unexpected.

Aelora lifted her goblet to her lips, taking a slow sip before setting it down with a quiet clink.

"Well then, my lord," she said, voice smooth, "perhaps I shall have to test the truth of that claim... one day."

Cregan smirked but said nothing.

Just watched her.

And somehow, that silence was louder than any words could have been.

The great hall buzzed with conversation, but Aelora barely heard it.

She could feel the eyes of the North upon her, men and women watching her with cautious curiosity, quiet judgment, unreadable expressions.

But she did not care.

She had been watched all her life.

It did not shake her.

Cregan turned his head slightly, glancing around the hall before looking back at her. "The North is not like the South."

Aelora smirked. "I gathered as much."

"It will take time for them to accept you."

Aelora arched a brow. "And if they do not?"

Cregan shrugged slightly, taking another sip of wine. "Then they are fools."

Aelora blinked.

She had expected a diplomatic answer, some reassurance about how the North valued duty and how she would eventually be welcomed.

But instead, Cregan spoke with simple certainty-as if the idea of them not accepting her was absurd to him.

She did not know what to make of that.

And she did not know what to make of him.

She had been prepared for coldness, for resentment, for quiet disdain from the man she was being forced to wed.

But instead, she found herself sitting beside a wolf who did not bare his teeth, but did not lower his gaze either.

She exhaled slowly, tapping a nail against her goblet.

"Are you always this certain of yourself, my lord?"

Cregan turned toward her, his expression calm.

"Yes."

Aelora let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "You truly are nothing like the men of King's Landing."

Cregan smirked. "And is that a compliment or an insult?"

Aelora tilted her head, considering.

Then she leaned in just slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"I suppose you'll have to wait and see."

Cregan chuckled, shaking his head as he lifted his goblet in another silent toast.

Aelora lifted hers in return, their eyes holding for a moment longer before she took another sip, letting the warmth settle in her chest.

She had not expected this.

She had not expected to enjoy this.

But for the first time since she had left her home behind, since she had been sent away like a pawn in someone else's game-

She did not feel entirely powerless.

Winterfell might be cold, but she was a daughter of fire.

And she was starting to think that perhaps, just perhaps, she might like playing with wolves.

----------

Cregan's perspective

Cregan had never been a man for courts and games.

He was a Stark of Winterfell-born to rule, not to scheme. His world was cold stone, steel, and duty.

And yet, as he sat beside his betrothed, drinking wine and matching her sharp words with his own, he felt like he was being drawn into a