Wolfswood

Shadows stretched long and blue between ancient trees, cloaking the riders as they wound deeper into the Wolfswood. Cregan and Myrcella rode side by side, cloaks drawn tight against the cold. The forest air was crisp, each breath a little sharper, as their horses moved along a snow-dusted trail.

For a long time, there was only the rhythm of hooves and the quiet hush of pine needles underfoot. At last, Cregan broke the silence. "My princess, I hope the North has not proved too hard for you."

Myrcella's hands were steady on her reins, her cheeks red from the cold. "No, my lord. It's a harsh place, yes. But honest. I think I prefer it." She looked at him, the hush between them fragile but real. "If we're to be married, let's be honest too. It seems easier on us both, doesn't it?"

Cregan's shoulders relaxed. "It would," he agreed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sincerity's a northern custom I'm proud to keep."

She met his eyes, wistful. "I never thought I'd live here. Growing up, I only wanted to marry a storybook knight. But at court, everything was masks and maneuvering. My parents... they were never an example. I suppose I just want this—us—to work."

He could not think of the right words, so he simply nodded.

Myrcella let out a small laugh. "Who'd think the Bloody Wolf is shy?" Her gaze sparkled. "I heard you when challenged my grandfather at the time of Trial by combat."

He gave a lopsided grin. "Honestly? Facing the Mountain was easier than this—than learning how to talk and hope, when you're not sure what comes next."

Her face grew theatrical. "So you'd rather wrestle a monster than talk to your promised bride?"

Cregan groaned, but then realized. "You're baiting me."

Myrcella's laughter rang clear, echoed by the frost-laced trees. "Lyanna told me teasing you is great fun. She was right."

"Beware Lyanna's counsel, Princess—she'll be the end of me."

She regarded him, softer now. "You care for that child dearly."

Cregan's voice dropped to a fond note. "To the death and beyond. But She's a trouble more than the combined lords of North."

Myrcella's smile lingered as dusk deepened. "I'm glad I came," she said quietly. "And I'm trying to be a northern lady."

He met her honesty with his own. "It means more than you know."

They turned back toward Winterfell in the falling dark—no longer strangers, but not quite lost anymore.

Learning the North

The days settled into an unfamiliar peace. Cregan was determined that Myrcella should not live as a guest or a southern exile, but as part of his world.

Each morning, he met her in the stables while frost still silvered the straw. "Mountain horses need gentler hands than you'd think," he told her, showing her how to brush their coats, test their hooves, win their trust. "A strong horse will see you through when storms come early—or when roads run red."

Myrcella learned quickly, surprising them both. The grooms took to her, offering shy smiles as she called the horses by their northern names.

On other days, they ventured into the Wolfswood. Cregan taught her how to read deer-sign in snowdrifts or walk quietly over brittle leaves. Once, they glimpsed a lynx, ice-white and wild, stalking through the underbrush. Myrcella's breath misted in awe.

"You never forget that," Cregan murmured. "The forest keeps its secrets, but tonight you've seen its heart."

It was amid these trees that she met Shadow, Cregan's direwolf, black and enormous, his yellow eyes keen and solemn. Myrcella hesitated. "Let him come to you," Cregan instructed. She stood her ground. Shadow sniffed, gave a soft huff—then, as if granting her entry to another world, nuzzled close for a scratch.

"Wolves trust those who will trust them." Cregan said, satisfied.

She risked a shy smile. "And are you learning to trust me?"

He nodded. "I'm trying."

Hearth and Archery

Afternoons brought archery practice, cold air tinged with the scent of hay and oiled leather. Myrcella fumbled at first, her stance uncertain, but Cregan was endlessly patient.

"Breathe deep. Let the arrow loose at the bottom of your breath. Don't grip so tight—hold it gentle, as if it were a songbird, not a sword." He adjusted her elbow, steady and careful.

By week's end, her arrow found the target. She bounced on her toes. "You're a better teacher than most at court," she teased.

That evening, they lingered by the fire drinking thick cider, sharing stories. Cregan spoke of old Stark kings, the Hour of the Wolf, direwolves said to walk as men. Myrcella answered with tales of garden walks and Tommen's kittens—moments of gentleness from a world where gentleness was currency more rare than gold.

She teased him about his brooding way; he surprised her by laughing, honest and low. The sound made something catch in her chest—comfort, perhaps, or hope.

IV. The Heart Tree

At month's end, silvery moonlight washed the godswood in frost. The heart tree rose, ancient eyes weeping red in the cold. Cregan knelt, head bowed; Myrcella joined him, new to the old gods but not to yearning.

Myrcella closed her eyes, wishing fiercely that her prayers might be heard.

When she opened them, Cregan was holding out his hand—not an order, nor a wish, but a quiet invitation. This time, she did not hesitate.

"I'm glad you're here," he whispered, voice careful as a vow.

She squeezed his fingers. "So am I."

The snow fell around them, silent as a benediction.

Becoming Part of the North

With each passing day, Myrcella grew more at home. She laughed with Lyanna over misshapen wolf biscuits, rode across the fields with Torrhen, and surprised everyone (even herself) by joining the kitchen staff to learn northern stews.

She lost her fear of the kennels, grew gentle with the smallest direwolf pups, and was soon known, warmly, by every retainer and handmaid.

One morning, after returning a lost lamb to its mother, muddy and victorious, she ran into Cregan in the yard. He brushed a leaf from her tangled hair and smiled. "You look like you belong here."

By evening, as the shadows stretched long once again, they'd sit in the solar, sharing quiet: he recounted tales of winter storms, she conjured the smell of roses blooming over Blackwater. They said little, but the silence was no longer awkward—now it was comfort.

A Letter From the South also came in those days

It was on one such morning, as frost shimmered on the windows, that a raven arrived for Cregan—bearing the seal of House Martell.

He opened it by the fire, Myrcella watching with gentle curiosity as he read Oberyn's unmistakable script, sharp as ever:

"Bloody Wolf,

Word reaches me you have returned north and forgotten the warmth of old allies. My daughters, it seems, are none too pleased to be discarded after sharing your battles and your blood. I am not happy either, though I understand that matters of politics and honor sometimes tie even wolves in knots. Still, I would not have my kin soured toward a man who once called them lover. Come south, to Sunspear, when duty allows—show them respect, make peace, and prove the north has not frozen your heart entire.

— Oberyn Martell"

Cregan read the letter twice, sober, then folded it and tucked it away.

Myrcella was silent, waiting.

He finally spoke, voice thoughtful. "Oberyn Martell invites me to Dorne. I suppose the Sand Snakes are feeling wronged—I'm bound to make peace, show I have not forgotten old friendships. I know you also

feel wrong about your husband having lovers but deal had been made before and I would like to honour my words.I know you have seen your father . Ignoring your mother and yourself. I would be better than that I promise but deal has be honoured."

She smiled bitterly. " I don't like it like you said my father was a bad example . But I already understand and already given orders to tolerate it. I would as long as you know who your real wife is ." She said and continued

"You left a trail of strong women in your wake, my lord."

He sighed at that .

He made a face. "Remind me to drink deeply before I face council and your father and family."

She laughed—the sound bright as falling snow. Then she sobered. "You should go. Good allies are hard to come by."

He nodded, grateful for her understanding. "When time allows, I will."

A New Bond Forged

By the next full moon, Frosthall felt entirely transformed. Myrcella was no longer only a southern bride, but something essential to the rhythm of the keep—her laughter familiar, her advice sought, her presence grounding.

She and Cregan shared a quiet moment on the battlements, watching moonlight glaze the white hills.

"I think I could love it here," she said quietly, uncertain.

He paused, breathed the frozen air, and answered with rare conviction. "You already do. And for all my faults, I am glad you are here."

She nestled close, no formality in the gesture—just the open warmth of two souls learning, at last, to become home for each other.

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