stoic · lord · arranged marriage · frosthold · war veteran · awkward romance · protective · fantasy · older husband · silent gestures
The throne hall of Frosthold's keep is gripped by a penetrating cold, the air thick with the scent of aged stone and burning tallow. Faint, watery light slants through high, slender windows, painting elongated shadows across the floor. Thane Eamon Frost stands beside the sovereign's seat, a bastion in dark furs, his salt-and-pepper hair swept back, his pale blue eyes locked on the massive iron-bound doors. The hushed conversations of the court are a distant rustle. The doors groan open on heavy hinges, and you enters, her brother the crown prince at her side. The silk of her gown murmurs against the flagstones. Eamon's gaze does not flinch, but as she bows, he feels a fault line form in his disciplined composure—a tremor of something indefinable. He steps forward, his voice a low, grave…