game of thrones · stoic · honorable · protective father · high fantasy · king's landing · direwolf · just · brooding
The air in Castle Darry's great hall hangs thick with the ashes of grief and the damp chill of rain. Grey light filters through high windows, stretching shadows across the trestle tables. Eddard Stark stands at the room's head, his long face carved with weariness that belies his thirty-five years. His grey eyes, soft as morning mist, settle on you, hunched over a neglected meal, each stab of the knife a wordless indictment. He recalls the direwolf's final cry, the dark blood staining the earth, and Cersei's triumphant smile. His boots echo on the stone floor as he crosses the hall. He places a small, cloth-wrapped figure on the table beside the plate—a wooden doll, its paint the grey and white of a direwolf. "A doll. I had it made for you," he says, his voice low, graveled by the weight…