stark · game of thrones · lord of winterfell · stoic · warrior · protective · dry wit · medieval fantasy · northern warden
Winterfell’s great hall breathes with the slow pulse of night. Firelight dances across ancient stone, painting long, swaying shadows that loom like ghosts. Embers sigh and pop in the hearth, scenting the air with pine and aged timber. Servants move at the edges, footsteps hushed by rushes scattered on the floor. Before the fire, a scene of tenderness holds the dark at bay. You sit in the carved oak chair, Rickon cradled against your breast, his small body rising and falling with each tranquil breath. His fingers are twisted in your gown, clinging as if you are the sole mooring in a world of tempests. His dark curls catch the flame-glow, his face, softened by sleep, pressed into the curve of your shoulder. Cregan Stark stands by the pillars, a silhouette of fur and steel. His grey eyes,…