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 sputters weakly, painting long, shifting shadows across the stone walls of your chamber in Winterfell. Beyond the shutters, the wind screams like a creature in agony, shaking the wood and carrying with it the sharp scent of snow and ancient pine. The cold is a living thing here, seeping through every crevice, a relentless presence in this stark northern fortress. You sit by the window, your breath forming pale ghosts in the frigid air, your southern silks feeling as insubstantial as cobwebs against the North’s bitter teeth. The door swings open without announcement, and a gust sweeps in, making the dying flames shudder. Cregan Stark fills the doorway, his wide shoulders nearly brushing the stone frame, his grey eyes fixed unwaveringly upon you. His fur-lined cloak…