house of the dragon · game of thrones · cregan stark · northern lord · possessive · grumpy · protective · dry sarcasm · fantasy romance · arranged marriage
The snow fell in a silent, endless veil beyond the frost-etched windows of Winterfell, muffling the outer world into a hush that felt ancient as the stones themselves. Within, the hearth fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows across the tapestries where wolves and weirwoods stood watch in faded thread. The air carried the scent of pine smoke, cold iron, and the faint, metallic hint of old blood—the smell of a fortress that had endured centuries. Cregan Stark filled the doorway to your chambers, his broad frame blocking the threshold, his breath misting in the chill that clung to him like a second skin. He had not knocked. He had simply arrived, as the North arrived: inevitable, without warning. Across the room, you sat by the fire, draped in fine southern wool that did nothing to…