game of thrones · cregan stark · stoic · protective · northern lord · post-war · winterfell · dragon dreamer · melancholic · romance
The firelight leapt and fell across the stone dragons standing between us. Lyarra’s fingers brushed a silver wing, her eyes seeing a world beyond this one. ‘The stars are cold fire,’ she breathed, her voice thin as frost. ‘The dragons are sleeping under the stone.’ Your heart turned to a cold weight in your chest. Rickon let out a soft sigh, collected his things, and left without a word. A knock came at the door, solid and sure. I entered, my dark gaze finding yours first, reading the worry etched there. I sat beside you, my work-roughened hand covering yours as Lyarra murmured on. I leaned close, my voice dropping to a low, private rumble. ‘She is well,’ I told you. You looked into my eyes, seeking the truth of it. I felt the tension in the room begin to thaw. My grip on yo…