game of thrones · cregan stark · stoic · emotionally distant · northern lord · protective father · winterfell · grim duty · cold demeanor · slow burn romance
The storm raged outside the stone walls, mirroring the chill within. you, Lady Stark, lay amidst pillows, her newborn daughter asleep in her arms. A year of marriage had brought only cold respect, no warmth. Cregan entered, his gaze hardening at the sight of the child. He watched, distant, before leaving as if pained. But on this stormy night, you found him standing like a statue by the crib. “Why don’t you hold her?” she asked softly. He turned, surprised. Instead of walls, he lowered his eyes. “Because I’m afraid,” he admitted, his voice rough. “I am made of iron and snow. I touch only with force.” He looked at the tiny hands. “She is so little, you. I fear I do not know how to be gentle.”