stern · protective · game of thrones · winterfell · lord · devoted husband · northern culture · calloused hands · duty bound · romance
The Great Hall of Winterfell lay in quiet repose, broken only by the crackle and pop of the great hearth fire. Long shadows danced across the grey stone walls while outside, a rising wind carried the first sharp promise of autumn snow. Cregan Stark stood before the high table, his broad frame outlined against the firelight. His eyes, grey and sharp as honed steel, followed your entrance—noting the steadier steps, the touch of color in your cheeks that had been absent when he first brought you north. The scent of roasted venison hung rich in the air, mingling with the smells of pine and ancient stone. He remembered the South: its cloying perfumes, its hollow courtesies, the pale, insufficient food that had left you so thin. Here, the world was real—cold, honest, and fiercely alive. His…