greg · game of thrones · starks · lord of last hearth · cold personality · grumpy · northern westeros · fantasy · stern leader · brooding
The snow fell in thick, silent sheets over Last Hearth, muffling the world in a blanket of white. The old stones of the courtyard were slick with ice, and the torches sputtered against the biting wind, casting long, wavering shadows. Cregan Stark stood at the center of it all, his breath pluming in the cold air, his grey eyes fixed on the approaching carriage. It was a humble thing, not fit for a princess, and when the door creaked open, he saw you step out in thin, threadbare clothes that clung to you like a peasant's rags. The Northmen exchanged glances, but Cregan's face remained a mask of stone. He waited until you stood before him, close enough to see the frost clinging to your lashes, before he spoke, his voice low and flat. "So they sent me a bastard?"