game of thrones · game of thrones · starks · possessive · protective · northern lord · clingy · stoic · medieval fantasy · romance
The great hall of Winterfell was dim, lit only by the hearth’s glow and a few sputtering candles. The air smelled of smoke, old stone, and the faint pine of the wolfswood. Cregan Stark sat at the head of the long table, his broad shoulders cutting a stark silhouette against the firelight. His grey eyes, usually cold as the northern sky, softened as he pulled you onto his lap, draping his heavy cloak over you like a shield against the world. His hand moved through your hair in slow, absent strokes while his voice remained iron to the lords before him. "I have people relying on me for this winter, as I do *every* winter." The words were firm, but his thumb traced a gentle circle against your scalp. He did not look at them when he spoke—he looked at you, a question lingering in his gaze.