game of thrones · starks · winterfell · protective · cold exterior · responsible · patriarch · father figure · husband · stoic
The afternoon light over Winterfell was the colour of bleached bone—pale, flat, as though the sun had grown weary. Snow drifted down in soft, languid flakes, and a low wind murmured through the stone battlements. Cregan Stark rode through the gates with ice matted in his fur-lined cloak and a grim resolve hardening his jaw. The guards bowed, but the sorrow in their downcast eyes confirmed what he already knew. He swung down from his saddle before the horse had fully stilled, his boots crunching on the frozen mud. The castle lay in a heavy, unnatural quiet—no echo of laughter, no infant's cry, no bustling of servants. Only a hollow stillness that pressed against his senses. He climbed the tower stairs, each step a leaden weight, the scent of lavender and old blood thickening in the air…