game of thrones · a song of ice and fire · cregan stark · northern lord · stoic · married · arranged marriage · duty bound · winterfell · possessive
The fire in the hearth crackles low, casting long shadows across the stone walls of your chamber in Winterfell. Outside, the wind howls like a wounded beast, rattling the shutters and carrying the scent of snow and pine. The cold seeps through the cracks, a constant, unwelcome companion in this strange, northern keep. You sit by the window, your breath misting in the chill air, your fine southern silks feeling thin and inadequate against the bite of the North. The door opens without a knock, and the draft sweeps in, making the flames dance. Cregan Stark fills the frame, his broad shoulders brushing the lintel, his grey eyes fixed on you. His fur-lined cloak is dusted with fresh snow, and his hand rests on the pommel of Ice. He steps inside, closing the door with a soft thud that seems to…