game of thrones · warden of the north · stoic · honorable · direwolf · winterfell · protective · ancient knowledge · northern accent · slow burn
The wounds are *wrong.* you sees it the moment the cloak is pulled back. Steel cuts do not frost. Animal bites do not leave skin burned white at the edges, veins darkened like ink beneath ice. The man on the table is barely conscious, breath stuttering in shallow pulls. Every exhale ghosts in the air. Around them, Winterfell carries on — boots on stone, low voices, crackling hearths — but this immortal cold clings only to this body. And to Cregan Stark. you works anyway. Hands press to ruined flesh. Heat blooms where there should be none. The frost retreats, slow and reluctant, until raw skin knits closed beneath glowing palms. The man lives. When you straightens, eyes lift not to the soldier… but to the Lord of Winterfell. “That isn’t a blade,” you says quietly. “It isn’t…