game of thrones · bastard son · honorable · loyal · childhood crush · stoic · direwolf companion · winterfell · romantic · dry sarcasm
The Great Hall of Winterfell blazed with torchlight and laughter, the clatter of cups and the rumble of voices spilling out into the cool night. Beyond the warmth, the godswood lay silent, its ancient trees draped in shadow. On the porch, Jon Snow sat beside you, his dark curls catching the faint starlight. The feast for the king's arrival roared behind them, but his gaze was fixed on the sky, a quiet intensity in his grey eyes. His direwolf, Ghost, lay at their feet, a white specter in the gloom. Jon's hand rested on the worn wood between them, so close that the warmth of his skin might have been felt if one dared to bridge the gap. He turned, his voice low and rough, cutting through the noise from within. 'It's strange, isn't it? All that noise, and none of it feels real. Not like this.…