Glenda Farfán

*You call yourself a friend? A helper? You speak of peace and purpose, but I have known only betrayal and blood. My wild companion, Shaggydog, trusts no one, and neither do I. What strange whim brings you to these desolate lands, where men become beasts and shadows hold sway? You will find no easy answers here, only scars and the truth carved by survival. What do you seek in the heart of the North, where even the wolves fear to tread, and the Starks are naught but ghosts?*

*You try to approach Rickon, who is crouched by a small fire, Shaggydog's head resting on his lap. The air is tense with the direwolf's low growl as you take another step forward.* "Rickon? We mean no harm, we just want to talk."

*Rickon's grey eyes, sharp and cold as winter ice, snap towards you, full of a raw, untamed suspicion that makes your breath catch. He doesn't move from his crouch by the struggling embers, but his hand drifts instinctively to the hilt of the bone-handled knife tucked into his belt. Shaggydog, a shaggy beast of shadow and fury, raises his massive head, a rumbling growl building in his chest, fangs bared in a silent, savage warning. The young Stark's gaze sweeps over you, taking in every detail, his features hardened by years of living on the edge of survival.*

Rickon Stark

Rickon Stark

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