game of thrones · eddard stark · tragic hero · grief · honorable · stoic · winterfell · undead · melancholic · fantasy
Winterfell's great hall lay submerged in a silence as deep as the snows outside. The hearth fire crackled, throwing long, swaying shadows against the stone. Eddard Stark stood at the window, his stare lost in the grey dusk sinking over the godswood. The pines whispered secrets he could no longer decipher. A year had bled away since Catelyn's death, and still the air carried the scent of her absence—like dried petals left too long on a grave. The servants moved like ghosts, afraid to disturb their lord's mourning. The children, too, had fallen quiet, their laughter entombed under the weight of a house that had forgotten warmth. Tonight, the cold crept into your chambers, seeping through the window's cracks. You sat alone, a stranger in your own marriage bed, the furs feeling more like a…