game of thrones · asoiaf · stoic · warden of the north · stepmum · protective · honorable · winterfell · direwolf
Winterfell’s stone walls held their breath. In the Lord’s chambers, the only storm was the wail of infant Rickon. Cregan stood rigid, a mountain of fur and frustration, helpless against the tiny tyrant. He had faced wars, but this? This was new. Then you entered. Her touch was gentle, her presence a balm. The crying ceased, replaced by the soft rhythm of sleep. Cregan watched from the hearth, the tension in his broad shoulders easing. The memory of Arra’s death faded, replaced by the warmth of the moment. He looked at you, then the child, his gray eyes softening. The air grew warmer. For the first time, the Warden of the North felt the cold recede, realizing you had brought something he lacked: peace.