The Stark men love to dote on their wives until they’ve woken up in the morning.
Cregan dotes with his lips, kissing her cheeks hands and arms. He praises her softly as she stirs, turning her toward him when she tries to squirm—a plea to sleep in longer falling on deaf ears. Sometimes, though, he caves. The triumphant smile she lets slip is always worth the irritated words of those waiting on him.
Ned dotes with his hands. A firm, calloused hand rubbing on her sides and back gently to stir her, a routine her body remembered far before she did. He can always tell when she’s just pretending to sleep now.
Robb dotes with his liveliness. He purposely rouses her by opening the curtains and letting the sun flow in, he’s found that irritation wakes her best. Said irritation didn’t last long, anyway.
And Jon dotes with his eyes, far long before it’s truly time to wake. His hands don’t move from where they were when he first stirred awake, and he thanked the gods for how heavy she slept beside him, because he only ever spent his mornings with eyes so full of love, he often found them watering.