A storm in the north | cregan stark

20

The crisp air of the Northern morning stung Aelora's cheeks as she made her way through Winterfell's godswood. The towering weirwood trees, their branches heavy with snow, loomed overhead, casting ghostly shadows on the frozen ground. The heart tree, with its ancient face carved into the bark, seemed to watch her with unblinking, judgmental eyes.

Aelora pulled her cloak tighter around her, her steps measured and deliberate. She had always been careful to maintain her composure, especially here, where the weight of tradition and expectation pressed down on her like a heavy blanket. The North was a far cry from the sun-drenched lands of Caelia, and every day she felt the cold more acutely, not just in the air but in the people around her.

As she wandered deeper into the godswood, she almost didn't notice the old servant until she was upon her. The woman was kneeling by the heart tree, her hands folded in silent prayer. Her hair, streaked with gray, was pulled back neatly, and her face bore the lines of a long life spent in service. Despite her age, there was a quiet strength about her, a sense of purpose that had not dimmed over the years.

Aelora stopped, her gaze cool and distant. The woman turned to look at her, her eyes sharp but kind, as if she could see through the layers of Aelora's carefully constructed facade. Aelora recognized her—Olena, one of the oldest servants in Winterfell, a woman who had been with the Stark family since before Cregan's parents had passed. She was known for her loyalty to the Starks, particularly to Cregan, whom she had cared for as a boy.

"Lady Aelora," Olena greeted her, her voice soft but firm. "The godswood is a good place for reflection."

Aelora inclined her head slightly, not committing to more than a polite acknowledgment. "It's... peaceful here," she replied, her voice even, giving nothing away.

Olena studied her for a moment, as if weighing her words carefully. "Winterfell can seem harsh to those who are not used to it. But there is strength in the cold, in the land and in the people."

Aelora's expression remained neutral. "I'm sure it's just a matter of... adjustment." She chose her words carefully, revealing nothing of the unease she had felt since arriving. The whispers, the sidelong glances—it was all so foreign to her, but she wouldn't let it show. Not here, not to anyone.

Olena nodded, a faint smile touching her lips. "The North does not warm easily to outsiders. But those who endure find a home here, a place among its people."

Aelora met the older woman's gaze, searching for any sign of judgment or condescension, but found none. Olena's eyes were calm, steady, as if she saw more than what Aelora was willing to reveal.

"I've heard the whispers," Aelora said finally, her tone flat, betraying none of the anger or frustration she felt. "They're inevitable, I suppose."

Olena's expression grew serious. "The North respects strength, my lady. Not just in arms, but in spirit. If you stand firm, if you show them you belong, they will come to accept you."

Aelora gave a slight nod, her face a mask of careful composure. "I appreciate your advice, Olena."

The old servant stepped closer, her voice lowering. "I've seen many come and go from Winterfell, but the ones who leave their mark are those who don't falter in the face of adversity. You are stronger than they know, Lady Aelora. Show them that strength."

Aelora's gaze flicked to the heart tree, then back to Olena. "Strength comes in many forms," she said quietly, her thoughts guarded. "We'll see which form is required of me."

Olena smiled, though her eyes remained serious. "Indeed, my lady. And you'll have Lord Cregan by your side. Together, you can weather whatever storm comes."