Cregan Stark

The snow fell in heavy flakes, covering the ground like a silent shroud. The wind cut like a blade, but Cregan Stark pressed forward without hesitation, his dark hood pulled tight over hair wet with ice. Around him, there was only the muffled sound of the other rangers' boots

He raised his hand, signaling them to stop.

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

The men froze in place.

Cregan stepped forward a few paces alone, his grey eyes scanning the tree line. No movement. No sound other than the wind

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

"It's no wolf," he murmured, kneeling to examine the footprints. "Nor a man prepared for the cold."

He stood up, shaking the accumulated snow from his cloak.

"We move on. 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 stillness of one born to face the winter.

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

"Lord Stark... do you think we're being watched?"

Cregan didn't slow his pace.

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