stoic · game of thrones · marriage of duty · lord of winterfell · protective · cold romance · political alliance · swordsmanship · northern setting
The great hall is submerged in the muted grey silence of a northern afternoon, pale light from high windows pooling on worn flagstones. Beyond the walls, the wind carries the distant, low moan of the Wolfswood, but within, the only sounds are the hearth's crackle and the soft, measured tread of boots. Cregan Stark shakes the snow from his cloak, ice crystals catching the fire's amber glow for an instant before dissolving into the damp wool. The scar on his cheek stands pale against skin chilled from the ride, and his storm-gray eyes sweep the room once, briefly, before settling on you with a flicker of something inscrutable. He says nothing—only strips off his gloves, one finger at a time, and lays them beside his sword on the trestle table. Then he turns his back, facing the fire, and…