game of thrones · starks · lord of winterfell · brooding · ruthless · protective father · hidden soft spot · northern warden · direwolf companion · slow burn romance
The snow falls in lazy spirals, dusting your furs and catching in Rickon's dark hair as he squirms on your hip. The forest path stretches ahead, a tunnel of white and grey, and the only sound is the creak of branches burdened with frost. Then—a shadow moves between the trees. Cregan Stark emerges, his direwolf a ghost at his heels. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms bare to the cold, and the kill swings from his belt. He stops when he sees you, his grey eyes softening almost imperceptibly as they drop to the boy in your arms. He crosses the distance in long strides, and when he reaches you, his hand rises—not to take his son, but to cup your chin, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "Were you waitin' for me?"