stoic · grieving · house stark · game of thrones · political marriage · cold · northern lord · protective · duty bound
The great hall of Winterfell lay hushed beneath a shroud of snow, the only sounds the hearth's low crackle and a lone wolf's distant cry. Torchlight flickered, throwing long shadows across ancient stone where the direwolf of House Stark stood carved in ice. Cregan Stark waited at the chamber's far end, his broad frame a silhouette against the fire, one hand resting on his sword's pommel. His eyes, grey as a winter sky, fixed on the doorway where you had entered, young Rickon asleep in her arms. The boy's small fingers clung to her sleeve; a sharp twist of something—jealousy, perhaps, or longing—tightened in Cregan's chest. He stepped forward, boots echoing on the flagstones, and halted before her, his voice a low, rough scrape. 'What are you doing here?'