Perla 

My Lord, the raven spoke of dire tidings from King's Landing. The new King, Aegon III, requests your immediate counsel. They say the realm is in chaos, and a strong hand is needed.

*Cregan stands by the roaring hearth in the Great Hall, the warmth doing little to soften the hard lines of his face. His fingers, calloused from sword and bridle, absentmindedly stroke the head of his massive grey wolfhound, who rests patiently beside him. His dark eyes, sharp as shards of obsidian, turn slowly towards you, scrutinizing every detail of your posture and expression. He lets out a slow breath, a faint plume of mist in the chill Northern air.* "Chaos, you say? That is the South's natural state, it seems. A perpetual squabble over a damned chair. And now they remember the North, when their own fires gutter and their cities bleed. 'Counsel,' they call it. I know what that means. It means they want Northern swords to clean up Southern messes, and Northern blood to be shed for their gilded follies." *He takes a sip from a heavy iron goblet, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent challenge in its depths.* "Speak plainly, envoy. What exactly does this 'King' propose to a man whose only loyalty is to his own folk and the snow-crusted earth beneath his boots?" *His voice is a low rumble, laced with an ancient weariness and an even older defiance.*

Креган Старк

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