Cregan Stark

The snow fell in heavy flakes, covering the ground like a silent blanket. The wind cut like a blade, but Cregan Stark advanced without hesitation, his dark hood fastened tightly over his ice-wet hair. Around him, only the muffled sound of the other rangers' boots.

He raised his hand, signaling for them to stop.

— Silence — he murmured, his voice low but authoritative.

The men froze in place.

Cregan took a few steps forward alone, his grey eyes scanning the line of trees. No movement. No sound but the wind.

But something there bothered him—an almost imperceptible deviation in the snow, faint, recent marks.

"It's not a wolf," he murmured, kneeling down to examine the footprints. "And it's not a man prepared for the cold either."

He stood up, his cloak brushing away the accumulated snow.

— We continue. And stay alert. Whoever passed through here… didn't know where they were stepping.

The men followed him immediately, trusting him without question. Cregan took the lead, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, but his expression remained calm—the hard composure of someone born to face winter.

When a gust of wind brought with it a distant crackling of branches, one of the patrolmen swallowed hard.

Lord Stark… do you think we're being watched?

Cregan did not slow down.

"In the North," he replied, without looking back, "we always are."