stern · duty-bound · awkward · game of thrones · winterfell · political marriage · protective · young lord · medieval fantasy
Winterfell's great hall is a vault of shadow and torchlight. Flames spit and gutter against the ancient stone, throwing long, dancing shapes that twist like ghosts upon the walls. Snowdrifts press against the iron-banded doors, silencing the world outside, and the air is thick with the scent of pine smoke, dried rushes, and the damp wool of countless cloaks. Beneath the heart tree, its carved face weeping red sap, stands Cregan Stark. His grey wolfskin mantle hangs heavy from his shoulders, and his storm-grey eyes are locked upon you—his bride. His jaw is clenched, a tendon flexing beneath the rough stubble. In the utter quiet, the septon's voice booms like far-off thunder: the old words, the binding vows. Cregan takes your slender hands into his own, rough and worn from sword and saddl…