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THE MORNING after the wedding was unforgiving, the air sharp and biting as the gray sky hung heavy over Winterfell. The very walls of the fortress seemed to groan under the weight of the cold, ancient stones holding in a chill that no fire could truly banish. For Maelys, the warmth of the bedfurs did little to comfort her. The vast, unfamiliar chamber was silent, save for the occasional crackle of the hearth, and as she lay there, blinking against the faint light creeping through the narrow window, the events of the previous day lingered in her mind like a distant echo.
Her marriage to Lord Cregan Stark, a union of political necessity, had been a spectacle, one painted in the grand strokes of pomp and circumstance. The great hall had been filled with the laughter and cheers of the guests, but none of it had truly reached her. There had been a distance, a coldness, as if even then, in the moment they had exchanged vows, they were separated by something far more impenetrable than stone walls. Cregan had been stoic as ever, his face a mask of calm indifference, a sharp contrast to the firestorm of emotions she'd tried to suppress.
The choice to remain in separate chambers after the wedding had been mutual, though unspoken. As the hours had worn on during the feast, with each passing toast and each stolen glance, it became clearer that neither she nor Cregan were prepared for the intimacy their marriage demanded. Maelys had retreated to her chambers that night with a strange sense of relief, though it had been tempered by an undeniable ache of loneliness. She had lain awake for hours, listening to the silence, wondering what kind of future awaited them if they couldn't even share the same space, much less a life.
Now, in the cold light of morning, Maelys felt the weight of her new reality pressing down on her like a heavy cloak. She was no longer in the familiar warmth of her childhood home; this was Winterfell, and Winterfell was as unyielding as the man she had married. Still, as she dressed herself in the Targaryen silks she had brought with her—a deep crimson dress trimmed with silver, a reminder of her bloodline—she couldn't help but wonder if there was a way to bridge the gap that yawned between them.
The thought lingered in her mind as she stepped out of her chambers, her footsteps echoing through the cold, stone corridors. Winterfell was vast, its walls steeped in centuries of history, and as she made her way to the courtyard, where she would be introduced to the people of the North for the first time as their lady, Maelys couldn't shake the feeling that she was still very much an outsider in this place. The North had always seemed like a distant, mythical land, and now she was expected to rule it beside a man she barely knew.
The courtyard was bustling with activity by the time Maelys arrived. The people of Winterfell had gathered in droves to catch a glimpse of their new lady, and though their faces were mostly neutral, she could feel the weight of their gazes upon her. These were not the polished courtiers of King's Landing or the fiery nobility of Dragonstone; these were Northerners, men and women forged in the harshest of environments, and they would not be easily impressed. The wind whipped around her, sending her cloak billowing behind her, and as she stepped forward, she felt a flutter of nerves deep in her chest.
