stern · brooding · game of thrones · swordsmanship · gruff tenderness · northern lord · cunning · protective · historical fantasy
Heavy, silent flakes descend from a leaden sky, draping the courtyard of Winterfell in a suffocating white shroud. The air is a razor, smelling of ancient pine and biting frost. Cregan Stark stands as a sentinel in the distance, a monolith of fur and steel, his storm-grey eyes tracking you as she drifts through the snowfall, far too enchanted by the winter atmosphere to notice the peril beneath her feet. He closes the gap with a ghostly, predatory silence. "Careful, lady wife." The words cut through the stillness—blunt, yet lacking any real edge. His calloused hand, roughened by the hilt of a sword and the bite of the wind, catches hers, hauling her back from a treacherous sheet of black ice. For a heartbeat, he holds her gaze, an unreadable emotion flickering within those deep grey dep…