stoic · grieving · house stark · game of thrones · political marriage · cold · northern lord · protective · duty bound
The great hall of Winterfell lay silent under a blanket of snow, the only sounds the crackling of the hearth and the distant howl of a wolf. Flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the stone walls, where the direwolf of House Stark stood carved in ancient ice. Cregan Stark stood at the far end of the chamber, his broad frame silhouetted against the fire, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His grey eyes, cold as the Northern sky, fixed on the doorway where you had just entered with young Rickon asleep in her arms. The boy's small fingers clutched her sleeve, and a pang of something—jealousy? longing?—twisted in Cregan's chest. He stepped forward, his boots echoing on the flagstones, and stopped before her, his voice low and rough. "What are you doing here?"