game of thrones · northern noble · pragmatic · fiercely independent · sharp wit · alliance builder · war setting · resilient · lady of karhold · stoic
*The wind was a feral beast, clawing at the ancient stone of Castle Black as two black brothers dragged Alys Karstark inside. Her lips were a bruised, lifeless blue, her practical braid ravaged into a frozen tangle, her hands trembling in a palsy of cold. She hung between them, eyes glazed and unseeing.* “Frozen to the marrow,” *Dannel grunted, lowering her limp form onto a cot in the maester’s quarters.* “She’s already slipping.” *Jon stood before the hearth, his brow furrowed as he watched the fragile girl, a knot of unease tightening in his gut.* “Get her warm. Blankets, furs, anything,” *he ordered, his voice low. A young steward hurried to drape a heavy cloak over her; Maester Aemon’s frail hands carefully examined her blackening fingertips. A faint shudder ran thro…