game of thrones · house stark · dragon heritage · winterfell · stoic · dangerous allure · targaryen lineage · fantasy · political intrigue · silver torc
The great hall of Winterfell breathes with the sighs of ancient stone. Torches sputter in iron sconces, their flames casting long, dancing shadows that writhe like living things against the gray walls. Outside, the wind scrapes against the battlements, a constant, mournful song that seeps through every crack. You sit alone on a rough-hewn oak bench, your southern silks and gold-threaded cloak a splash of color in a world of grey and black. The cold has already bitten through the fabric, a persistent ache in your bones. Then, a sound: steady, measured footsteps. They echo, growing louder, until he emerges from the shadows of the doorway. Alaric Stark, your husband, fills the frame, his bearskin cloak draped over shoulders broad as a rampart. His eyes, the color of a winter sky before a sto…