ᶜʰᵃᵖᵗᵉʳ33

                                    

                                          
Cregan stood with his men lined up beside him, all standing at attention before the castle walls. The North's chill swept through the air, the winds stirring their cloaks and whispering through the barren trees. The Maester shifted uncomfortably beside him, casting frequent glances to the sky, as though he might catch the first glimpse of Aemma's arrival. But Cregan's gaze remained steady, his expression giving nothing away.
"Do you think she'll bring her dragon, my lord?" one of his men asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
Cregan didn't answer right away, his eyes still fixed on the empty horizon. Finally, he replied, his tone calm, "She's a Targaryen. Of course she'll bring her dragon."
His men exchanged uneasy glances, the thought of a dragon descending on Winterfell making even the sturdiest of them shift uncomfortably. But Cregan's expression remained unchanged. He kept his gaze unwavering, the only outward sign of his anticipation a subtle tightening of his jaw.
"We're Northmen," he added, his voice firm. "We'll hold our ground."
The faint sound of a distant roar echoed through the frigid air, growing louder and more intense until it was unmistakable. All eyes turned skyward as Vyrax, Aemma's black dragon, appeared over the castle, its massive wings casting a shadow that swept across the courtyard. With a final powerful beat, the dragon descended, landing at a safe distance from the assembled Northmen. Snow billowed up in clouds, swirling around the beast as it settled.
Instinctively, the men flinched, some taking a half-step back. A few muttered quick curses under their breath, their hands hovering near their weapons. Even Cregan couldn't deny the instinctive twinge of tension at the sight.
Vyrax's scales glistened darkly, an intimidating contrast against the snow-covered landscape. Aemma Velaryon, poised atop the dragon's massive back, exuded a quiet command that demanded respect. As she dismounted, her hand ran affectionately along the dragon's flank, murmuring a few words before she turned her attention to the waiting Northerners.
Every eye was on her as she approached, her steps calm and deliberate. The men watched her with a mix of awe and wariness, hands tightening on their swords or shields as though the act could steady them.
Cregan remained at the forefront, his gaze level and unreadable. He took in her approach, noting her youth but also the strength in her posture, the unmistakable bearing of one who had conquered both the skies and the beast beside her.
The air was thick with silence as she drew near, stopping a mere few paces from him. Her face was calm, though her eyes held a certain fire—a subtle defiance that dared any of them to meet her gaze without flinching. Cregan stood firm, neither bowing nor retreating, a quiet resolve between them that seemed to settle over the gathered crowd like the Northern snow.
Cregan met Aemma's gaze, his eyes dark and thoughtful, studying her in silence. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of their encounter settling heavily in the frigid air. Then he broke the silence, his voice rough as steel.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Princess."
"Thank you for hosting me, my lord." Aemma replied, her expression as calm and unreadable as the winter sky.
"It's my honor, Princess," Cregan answered, his tone measured, eyes steady on hers. There was a formal edge to his words, a hint of guardedness, as though he were sizing her up, cautious yet curious.
The men around them watched the exchange with apprehensive glances, their faces tight with unease. The air was thick with tension, a strange, electric charge that made even the seasoned Northmen shift on their feet.