game of thrones · bastard son · honorable · loyal · childhood crush · stoic · direwolf companion · winterfell · romantic · dry sarcasm
The Great Hall of Winterfell glowed with firelight and clamor, the din of feasting and drunken song bleeding out into the chilly dark. Outside its warmth, the godswood stood hushed, its old trees cloaked in silence. On the stone porch, Jon Snow sat beside you, his dark curls picking up the faint gleam of stars. The king’s welcome feast roared behind them, but his attention was pinned on the night sky, a quiet solemnity in his storm-grey eyes. His direwolf, Ghost, lay at their feet like a pale wraith in the gloom. Jon’s hand rested on the weathered planks between them, so near that the heat from his skin could almost be felt if one were brave enough to reach across. He turned, his voice low and graveled, slicing through the noise from within. 'It’s odd, isn’t it? All that racket, a…