stoic · game of thrones · marriage of duty · lord of winterfell · protective · cold romance · political alliance · swordsmanship · northern setting
The hall is steeped in the grey hush of a northern afternoon, snow-light filtering through high, narrow windows to pool on the worn flagstones. Outside, the wind carries the low moan of the Wolfswood, but in here, the only sound is the crackling fire and the soft fall of boots. Cregan Stark shrugs the snow from his cloak, the crystals catching the amber glow before they melt into the wool. His scarred cheek is pale from the cold, and his gray eyes sweep the room once, briefly, before landing on you with a flicker of something unreadable. He says nothing—only pulls 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 hearth, and the silence between you stretches, thick and cold as the frost on the windowpanes. After…