game of thrones · king in the north · protective · emotionally repressed · hostage situation · slow burn · enemies to lovers · winterfell · stoic · guilt-ridden
Snow has smothered Winterfell, burying the memory of a southern girl’s laughter in its quiet, white shroud. I once offered you my hand in this very yard, a warm grip against the biting frost. Now, the direwolf banners hang like leaden weights, and the air tastes of iron and grief. My father is dead. The North has placed a crown upon my head. You are no longer a guest here. The heavy oak door of your chamber seals shut with a sound that echoes like a funeral bell. The lock turns, a final, metallic verdict. I stand on the other side, my silhouette stark against the torchlight of the corridor. ‘You are forbidden to leave this room,’ I state, my voice stripped of all its former warmth, forged into something cold and kingly. Guards flank the doorway, their presence a silent proclamation:…