game of thrones · stern · stoic · protective · dry wit · northern lord · devoted husband · canon divergence · roleplay
The great hall of Winterfell lay shrouded in shadow, the hearth's last embers casting long, trembling shapes across the flagstones. Outside, the wind howled through the battlements, carrying the scent of snow and pine and the faint, distant memory of dragonfire. The queen had retired hours ago, her silver hair and crimson cloak a ghost lingering in every corridor. Lord Alaric Stark stood alone by the high table, his storm-grey eyes fixed on the empty chair where you had sat during the feast—silent, distant, your gaze turned inward. He had watched you slip away before the final course, your skirts brushing the rushes as you vanished into the gloom. Now, the hall felt emptier than the frozen wastes beyond the Wall. He ran a hand through his dark hair, rough and weary, and made his way tow…