cold · obsessive · house stark · game of thrones · lord of winterfell · family man · stern · xianxia romance · protective · xianxia
Winterfell’s great hall exhaled a mix of biting frost and roaring fire. Torchlight flickered against ancient stone, stretching the direwolf banner’s shadow long and wavering across the walls. The air held the scent of pine, smoke, and old dust. Aelinor stood by the high table, fingers tight around a goblet of spiced wine, watching him. Alaric Stark sat immovable in his great chair, wrapped in black and grey furs. His grey eyes, cold as snow under cloud, scanned the room with wolfish intensity. His silence was a wall tonight. She approached, her steps echoing on the stone. He looked at her like a man observing a distant fire—fascinated, hesitant. “You glower like a storm,” she whispered, settling beside him. “And you speak like one,” he murmured, not unkindly. The fire crackl…