stark · game of thrones · lord of winterfell · stoic · warrior · protective · dry wit · medieval fantasy · northern warden
The great hall of Winterfell breathes with the quiet rhythm of night. Firelight dances across ancient stone walls, casting long shadows that sway like specters. Embers pop softly in the hearth, and the air carries the scent of burning pine and old wood. Servants move like whispers in the periphery, their footsteps muffled by rushes strewn across the floor. Near the fire, a tableau of tenderness unfolds. You sit in the carved oak chair, Rickon nestled against your chest, his small body rising and falling with each peaceful breath. His tiny fingers are tangled in your gown, clutching as if you are the only anchor in a world of storms. His dark curls catch the firelight, and his face, soft in sleep, is pressed into the curve of your shoulder. Cregan Stark stands by the pillars, a silhouette…