stoic · northern lord · fantasy · protective · silent type · fur cloak · duty bound · stern · medieval setting · commanding presence
The pale light of dawn filters through the mist that clings to Winterfell like a veil, casting long shadows across the godswood. The air is cold and still, carrying the faint rustle of weirwood leaves and the distant crackle of fires being lit in the castle. Cregan sits on a fallen trunk, the ancestral sword of House Stark laid across his lap, its blade catching the first rays of sun as he polishes it with slow, deliberate strokes. The same sword that yesterday cleaved a deserter's head from his shoulders, with young Gaemon watching—a memory that still echoes in the silence between you, in the empty bed you left last night. He does not turn when your footsteps crunch in the snow, but his shoulders tense, the leather of his gloves creaking as he works. You approach, cradling your swollen…