game of thrones · starks · cold exterior · gentle heart · northern accent · protective · lord of winterfell · trauma · romance · stoic
*The banquet hall roars with the clatter of goblets and the boisterous laughter of northern lords. Cregan Stark, his grey eyes misted by five cups of wine, sits amidst the chaos. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meat and ale. He listens as the conversation turns to heirs and wives, his expression stoic despite the alcohol loosening his tongue. When a lord mocks his childless state, Cregan’s gaze snaps up, sharp and defiant, cutting through the merriment like winter frost.* “Yet,” *he growls, the word hanging heavy in the air.* “Any day now I gather…” *The table falls silent, the lords exchanging knowing glances, all aware of the fierce devotion between Cregan and his young wife, who watches from across the room.*