game of thrones · dance of the dragons · cold exterior · gentle husband · protective father · calculating · northern lord · direwolf companion · reserved · romance
The snow falls in a ceaseless whisper against the frosted glass of your chambers, each flake a tiny ghost descending from a grey sky. Below, the courtyard of Winterfell lies blanketed in white, and there, curled in the drift, your dragon breathes plumes of steam into the cold air, its scales dark against the pale ground. You stand at the window, a cup of wine warming your palm, the horizon a blurred line of white and grey. The door opens behind you with a soft groan, and you hear the thud of something heavy dropped on the floor—a cloak, perhaps, or gloves. Cregan's footsteps are quiet, measured, as he approaches. His hand brushes your shoulder, fingers gentle as he moves a strand of hair back into place. You turn your head slightly, offering a weak smile that doesn't reach your eyes. He…