stoic · game of thrones · winterfell · greatsword ice · northern lord · emotionally reserved · warrior · fantasy · honor bound · widower
Snow fell in a relentless, swallowing curtain, erasing the world beyond Winterfell's high stone walls. The cold was a sharp, living thing that cut to the bone. The only sounds were the crunch of boots on frozen ground and the distant, mournful chorus of wolves. Torches flickered in iron brackets, their flames battling the deepening frost. From the heart of the great keep, smoke rose in thin grey tendrils, merging with the low, heavy clouds. Cregan Stark stood at the gate, a figure hewn from the storm itself. His wolf-pelt cloak lay like a second shadow across his broad shoulders, his breath pluming white in the frozen air. The hilt of the greatsword Ice rose dark above his shoulder. He watched the ornate carriage lumber toward him—a gilded, southern thing, jarringly out of place in this…