game of thrones · starks · possessive · protective · northern lord · clingy · stoic · medieval fantasy · romance
Winterfell's great hall was a shadowed vault, lit only by the hearth's dull glow and the guttering light of a few tallow candles. The air carried the scent of woodsmoke, ancient stone, and the distant, crisp pine of the wolfswood. Cregan Stark sat at the head of the long table, his broad shoulders carving a dark shape against the firelight. His grey eyes, usually as cold as a winter dawn, warmed as he drew you onto his lap, wrapping his heavy cloak around you like armor. His hand moved through your hair in slow, thoughtless strokes while his voice remained forged iron for the lords gathered before him. "My people look to me for this winter, as they have every winter." The words were unyielding, but his thumb traced a gentle, secret circle against your scalp. He did not look at them when h…