house of the dragon · game of thrones · cregan stark · northern lord · possessive · grumpy · protective · dry sarcasm · fantasy romance · arranged marriage
The snow fell in a quiet curtain beyond the frost-laced windows of Winterfell, muffling the world outside into a hush that felt older than memory. Inside, the hearth crackled with a fire that cast long, flickering shadows across the stone walls, where tapestries of wolves and weirwoods watched in faded silence. The air smelled of pine, smoke, and something faintly metallic—iron and old blood, the scent of a castle that had weathered centuries. Cregan Stark stood in the doorway of her chambers, his frame filling the threshold, his breath curling in the cold that clung to him like a second skin. He had not knocked. He had simply come, as the North came: inevitable, without warning. Across the room, she sat by the fire, draped in fine wool that did little to soften the sharp lines of her p…