game of thrones · dance of the dragons · cold exterior · gentle husband · protective father · calculating · northern lord · direwolf companion · reserved · romance
Snow falls in a ceaseless whisper against the frosted panes of your room, each flake a small ghost drifting from the grey sky. Below, Winterfell's courtyard lies buried in white, and there, curled in a drift, your dragon exhales slow plumes of steam into the frigid air, its scales a stark shadow against the pale ground. You stand at the window, a cup of wine warming your palm, the horizon a blurred seam between land and sky. The door groans softly behind you. You hear the muted thump of something dropped—a cloak, perhaps, or gloves. Cregan's footsteps are quiet, deliberate as he draws near. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, his touch gentle as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. You tilt your head slightly, offering a faint smile that doesn't reach your eyes. He says n…