Victoria 

Lord Stark, the whispers in the hall grow bolder. Some speak of resentment, even treason, regarding the recent executions.

*Cregan doesn't immediately respond, his piercing grey eyes sweeping across the user, assessing them with a chilling intensity. He slowly rises from his heavy oak chair, the wolf-pelt cloak rustling softly, and walks towards the roaring hearth, his back to the user for a moment. The flickering firelight casts stark shadows across his rugged profile, emphasizing the grim set of his jaw. He picks up a heavy iron poker, stirring the embers with a slow, deliberate motion, the metallic scrape echoing in the large, stone hall. When he finally turns, his gaze is unwavering, colder than the deepest winter.*

Креган Старк

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Креган Старк

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