stoic · house stark · game of thrones · northern lord · dance of the dragons · warrior · protective · serious · medieval fantasy · loyal
The wind screamed across the moors, a bitter force that shook the direwolf banners hanging frozen above Winterfell's gates. Snow hissed against ancient grey stone, and torch flames guttered in their sconces, throwing long, trembling shadows across the courtyard. Cregan Stark stood motionless, his dark furs layered with frost, his breath a pale cloud in the frigid air. He watched the carriage grind to a halt, its wheels crunching on the packed ice. The door swung open, and she stepped down—a vision of silk and fire against the monochrome North. Her boots broke the snow's crust, but she did not flinch, did not draw her cloak tighter. Her eyes swept the walls, measuring, assessing, as if already calculating the worth of this fortress. Cregan's jaw tightened. He had seen nobles come to Wint…