Required by: noneLevel: greenPlot: Behind a great Lord there is always a great LadyExcerpt from: House of the dragon

Snow falls thickly beyond the window, silent and unstoppable, as you walk down the corridors of Winterfell. The stones beneath your feet are cold, no matter how many furs you wear or how much fire burns in the braziers. Frost is a second skin now, a thin layer separating you from the fire you carry inside. You have lived here for three years. Three years since you became Lady Stark, the Targaryen who left the sun of Dragonstone for the snow and stone of Winterfell. They called you a foreigner at first. They looked at you with distrust, with suspicion. Now, at least, they have learned to respect and even love you. You are their white-haired Lady.You walk, because stopping would be worse. The great hall is empty at this hour, only a few servants move like shadows at the edge of your vision. You wonder if they really see you or if, like so many, they prefer not to meet your gaze. You know what they say about you - the Lady of Fire, the Queen of Dragons. Some, the older, 'old-fashioned' ones, are convinced that you have the power to actually turn into a dragon. This has always made you laugh a lot.
  The weight of Cregan's cloak slips over your shoulders as you sit at the council table. He's too big for you, that grey wolf-skin cloak, but you don't take it off. It is the only piece of him you have, now that the Wall keeps him away. Cregan left weeks ago, leaving you Winterfell, his sons, his men.And you rule.Not because anyone asked you, but because you are his wife, because you have his ring on your finger and his name beside yours. And because no one, not even the oldest and most stubborn lords, dare challenge you openly when your blood can summon fire.But you do not need fire today. Today you need patience and control. You listen to the pleas of supply masters, of castellans worried about food supplies, of lesser lords who bring rumours of rebels among the Mountains. Cregan should be here, sitting beside you, his voice calm and his judgement firm. But he is not here. There is only you. You wonder if your son Raegar has already forgotten the sound of his father's voice. If your daughter Lysanne, who still has the smell of milk and woollen blankets, will ever recognise that man as tall as a tree and as silent as snow, who has only held her a few times.
The council speaks, discusses, complains. And you listen to them, because listening is power. You look them in the eye, one by one, and see the fear hidden beneath the formality. They fear what they do not understand, and you are still a mystery, even after three years. When they meet your lavender eyes, they look away. When the council dissolves, you stand alone in the great hall. Only the crackling of the fire breaks the silence. You take off Cregan's cloak and place it on the chair next to yours.Behind a great lord there is always a great lady. And if Cregan cannot be here, you will be the wolf and the dragon, the mother and the regent. The North belongs to the Starks. And you are a Stark, even if your blood still burns like fire.

  You rise, adjust the brooch that holds your dress in place, and step out into the courtyard. The icy wind bites at your skin, but you do not tremble. You were born of fire, and now you reign in the ice.And you will, until he returns. And even beyond.You move across the courtyard with steady step, though each step seems to sink into the frozen mud that the melted snow has left behind. The people of Winterfell watch you surreptitiously - the servants hanging out damp cloths, the stable boys throwing buckets of water, the watchmen manning the walls.

The morning starts early, before the sun peeps over the towers. Maege, the elder housekeeper, informs you of the grain and meat supplies, how much honey is left in the barrels and how much beer is needed to keep the men on guard warm. Every decision seems trivial, but every crumb counts, because winter here is not a season: it is a promise.

Then come the first supplicants.A peasant couple from the village to the south come into the great hall. He shakes her hand so hard her knuckles whiten. They tell of a neighbour who has cut down a tree on their border and now claims part of their field. It is not the first border dispute you have heard, it will not be the last. But here, every patch of land is sacred. Every crop, every tree, every beast can make the difference between life and death.You listen to them both, patiently. You never raise your voice. In the end you decide: the tree will be divided, the wood burned for the two families, the border re-established with a clear line drawn by Cregan's men. It is a fair ruling, yet you see that no one is entirely satisfied. It does not matter. You are not here to make everyone happy. You are here to keep the North firm while your wolf is away.Then come the merchants. Two men who have argued over the price of wool and who demand that you intervene. You wonder, not for the first time, if they would do the same if Cregan were behind that table and not you. You know the answer. They demand justice, but under their breath they call you the Dragon Queen, as if your blood could ignite their warehouses with the blink of an eye.You stare at them for a long time before you decide. You want to be neither merciful nor cruel. Only just. And when your voice echoes in the hall - calm, steady, without trembling - you realise that even fear is a useful tool. If you cannot have their respect, you will settle for their prudence. The afternoon is made up of letters. You answer to the border guards, to the castellans of the farthest forts, to the lesser lords who complain of wolf raids or scattered bands of wildlings. Each message is a piece of the great mosaic that is the North, and you must hold it together with the strength of your hands alone.And then there are the whispers. The rumours that creep like the wind between the stones of Winterfell. They say that some lesser vassals are unhappy with the way a Targaryen rules their North. They say that House Crowl - bannermen of the Starks - is trying to convince the others that a true northern leader is needed, not a woman with dragon's blood and too delicate hands.

You almost laugh, thinking of how many times those hands have gripped your steel sword of Valyria, Dark Night, fighting against that of Cregan, Ice; or cradled his children during sleepless nights. You are as delicate and dangerous as ice, as fire. When evening falls, Winterfell is shrouded in frost. Your children sleep, Raegar huddled like a puppy under fur blankets, Lysanne with her fist clutched close to her face, oblivious to the storms you face every day. You sit by the fire, a cup of warm wine in your hands, and let the flame reflect in the metal of your dragon brooch.You are not Cregan, no. You do not have his low, confident voice, or the way he walks that makes every hall seem too small to contain him. But you have your blood, and your fire, and the will to never bend.Winterfell is yours, at least for now. Land does not belong to you, perhaps, but duty does. And while your wolf is away, it is the Lady of Fire who will hold her lands, her people, and her children together.Behind a great lord there is always a great lady. And even if no one wants to say it out loud, they know that if Winterfell holds, it is because it is you who holds its foundations with the strength of your will alone.For you are not just Cregan Stark's wife. You are Y/n Targaryen. And the North will learn to remember that.

Outside, the wind howls like a pack of hungry wolves, scratching the windows with icy fingers, but you don't really feel it. You are bent over the small cot, your hands clasped around Lysanne's tiny hand, while her breathing is rapid, short, more wheeze than breath.Her skin is hot, a violent contrast to the cold that fills the rooms of Winterfell. Sweat glues her pale curls to her forehead and every time she cries, a small choked sound that breaks your heart, you feel a blade plunge under your ribs.You tell yourself it's just an illness. Here in the North it is normal: the frosty air, the damp winds, a cold snap. But there is a voice in your head - that voice you have had since you became a mother - whispering darker things. What if it is something worse? What if the fever doesn't go down? What if your baby stops breathing before your eyes?You force yourself to keep control. You are a Targaryen. You are fire and blood. But all your lineage, your pride, your inner dragon is of no use when your daughter's warm, fragile body flails beneath your hands, helpless against an unseen foe.

Raegar slept in the next room, curled up in his furs, his thumb between his lips as he did as a child. He saw you slip into Lysanne's room and followed you with his gaze, silent. You are his security, his rock, his personal fortress. Yet, even he has begun to realise that you are not invincible.There is no one beside you tonight. No Cregan to share the burden of this fear with you. And no council of lords and masters can teach you how to be mother and regent at the same time, when both demand every part of you. The door opens softly and a servant reminds you that the council is waiting in the great hall. They need you. Wildlings have approached an outpost to the north, the guardian of Winter's Gate calls for reinforcements. A lord of a small village demands answers over a land dispute. The daily, unchanging grip of command. You look at Lysanne, her breathing shallow and her cheeks flushed with fever. You wonder how such a small creature could have stolen every inch of your heart. You wonder how you could leave her, even for an hour, knowing she might wake up and not find you there.You get up, slip into your heaviest woollen robe, but you cannot take your hand off your daughter's hot forehead. There is no right choice tonight. If you stay, Winterfell falters. If you go, you leave your daughter alone with an illness that could worsen in the blink of an eye.
But you are his mother and you are Lady of Winterfell. You are both, or you are neither.You lean down, brush your lips over Lysanne's forehead and whisper words that no one hears but her. Words of fire, of dragons, of mothers who do not bend even when the whole world drags them down. You tell her you will return soon, that there is nothing in the North or beyond the Wall that can keep you from her. Then you walk out of the room, leaving the door ajar to hear your little girl's breath as you walk away down the corridor. Every step is an invisible break in your heart. Every word spoken in the great hall is a stab of guilt that forces you to pretend you are whole, while inside you feel made of splinters.You sit at the council table with your hands clasped in your lap to keep them from shaking. You talk, you listen, you decide. No one knows your heart is left beside a cot, in a room too cold, with a little girl with silver hair and skin as hot as fire.To be mother and lady, dragon and she-wolf, queen and nurse. There is no manual, no song sung in castle halls. It is just you, with fire in your blood and snow under your feet, inventing every day the way to exist in two worlds that never stop asking you for everything.

In the great hall, the fire in the fireplace burns low, shadows dance on the stone walls, and voices overlap, louder and louder, more and more exasperated. Lord Crowl bangs a fist on the table, his silver rings clinking against the rough wood, while another lord rises up, aiming a look of impatience at you.You are there, sitting in the middle, your cloak on your shoulders and your hands entwined in your lap, but your mind is elsewhere.Lysanne's every laboured breath echoes in your ears like drums of war. Every word that echoes in the hall is muffled, distant, as if coming from another room, another world. Your heart has stayed by her cot, your hands are still there, sponging the sweat off her forehead, counting the beats of her breath.<<Lady Stark, are you listening? >>Lord Crowl's voice snatches you from your thoughts. You realise the whole room is watching you - some irritated, some worried, some smug. They want to see you falter. They want proof that a Targaryen is not made to hold the North.You open your mouth to answer, to say something, anything, but the knot tightening in your throat is too strong. The silence grows heavier, almost hostile.Then it happens.

The hall doors open wide with a dull thud, the icy wind rushes in like a pack of running wolves, causing the torches on the walls to flicker. And there, standing in the dim light, snow still clinging to his broad shoulders and his hair covered in frost, is Cregan Stark. For a moment, time stands still.The lords are suddenly silent, as if the frost itself has tightened their throats. The men rise, some surprised, others visibly relieved.But you do not get up. You cannot move. You are torn between the relief of seeing him and the frustration of feeling fragile right now, right in front of him. Yet, he looks at no one else. His icy eyes immediately find yours.In a few steps he is beside you. His hand, calloused and warm despite the frost, rests on your shoulder, a touch that says more than a thousand words.<<Enough is enough>> he says, his low, steady voice fills the room like distant thunder. He does not shout. He does not need to. Cregan Stark does not need to raise his voice to claim the command that belongs to him by right and by nature.The lords exchange nervous glances, some try to object, but his gaze shuts them down before words even find their way onto their tongues.<<Winterfell is still mine, as long as I breathe. And Lady Stark speaks with my voice. Those who cannot hold their tongues before her will have to deal with me>>.

Silence. Perfect, absolute.Only when the voices are completely silent does Cregan barely lean towards you, his face so close to yours that he touches your temple with his nose. It is a gesture no one can see, intimate and protective.<<How is she? >> he whispers, and doesn't need to say Lysanne's name. You know that's the first thing she wants to know. Now you have proof that he received the letter you sent him.You just shake your head, a minimal nod, but the pain in Cregan's eyes mirrors your own. Without another word, he brushes your back with his hand, a silent invitation to get up. And you do, because next to him you do not have to carry all the weight alone. He squeezes your hand - your small, cold hand in his, strong and firm - and together you leave the room, while the lords remain silent. There is no need for more words. The wolf has returned, and with him, ice and fire are reunited. As you walk through the icy corridors towards your children's room, you feel the knot in your throat loosen, just a little. Your steps are silent along the icy corridors of Winterfell, but your mind is a whirlwind of thoughts. Cregan's hand grips yours with a firmness that does not drag you, does not force you. He just holds you up, as he always has, yet there is a rough gentleness in the way his thumb touches the back of your hand, as if to remind you that he has indeed returned.Gently open the door to Lysanne's room. The flickering candlelight casts long shadows on the stone walls, and the child's faint breathing is the only sound besides the distant crackling of a dying fire.Cregan crouches beside the bed without hesitation, his large, calloused hands - hands that wield swords and tighten reins - suddenly become delicate as they shake the sweaty curls from your little girl's forehead. The contrast between her greatness and Lysanne's fragility is almost touching.<<My little one...>> he whispers, his voice a low breath that is almost a prayer.You stand beside him, your arms clasped to your chest as if to hold the pieces of yourself together. Cregan does not look at you, not immediately. You see him studying Lysanne's breathing, the slight tremor of her closed eyelids, her small hand clutching the blanket with the little strength he has.Then he looks up at you. In that look is everything. The weariness of the journey, the worry that has macerated every day spent away, the relief of being home. And the guilt, that subtle guilt that every father feels when he returns and finds that life has gone on without him, in the hardest of times.He holds out his hand to you and you give it to him, letting him pull you towards him. You sit beside him, on the edge of the bed too small to contain your fears, and you stand there, silent, with Lysanne in the middle.

<<How long has she been like this?>> you ask, your voice low so as not to wake her. <<Three days and two nights>> you answer, and the weight of those hours slips from your shoulders in confession. <<The teacher says it's just fever. But... I...>>You interrupt yourself, unable to say the rest. But you don't need to. Cregan knows. He knows you well enough to read the unspoken words. He knows you've spent hours watching over her, torn between the great hall and this room, dreading having to choose between your daughter and your duty. Her hand slides over the nape of your neck, her fingers sinking into your hair, a familiar, intimate gesture that keeps you anchored in the present. <<You don't have to do this alone, Y/n. Not any more. I'm back>>.The promise is simple, but it seeps into your chest like a warm balm. You lean against him, your head against his shoulder, and you smell the scent of snow and pine, the scent of home that you've missed more than you care to admit.<<What if it gets worse? What if...>><<It won't get worse>> he interrupts you, with that granitic confidence that only he knows how to have. <<And if it gets worse, we will face it together. There is nothing the North, or the fever, can take from us without a fight>>.

Close your eyes for a moment, let its warmth envelop you. You have felt lonely for so long, even when you shouldn't have. And now that he is here, you realise how far you have pushed yourself over the edge, how much you have held back, how much you have denied yourself even the luxury of trembling. <<You have done well, my love>> he whispers. <<You held this house, our children... and me together. Even from afar>>.He holds you tighter, a strong arm around your shoulders, and for the first time since the fever struck, you let a tear slip. A single, silent one, which he collects with a kiss on your temple. In that room, with your child sleeping between you and the frost pressing against the walls, you find your place. Not just Lady of Winterfell. Not just mother and regent.But woman, wife, companion to a man who needs no throne beside his to know that you are his queen.And tomorrow, when the sun rises, you will face together what is to come. Ice and fire, wolf and dragon, as it has always been.For behind a great lord, there is always a great lady.And beside that Lady, there is always a great Wolf.