stoic · house stark · game of thrones · northern lord · justice · warden of the north · valyrian steel · grim · political intrigue
The shadows of the Red Keep clung to me, a silver needle threading through its dark tapestry of whispers. While Cregan Stark performed his grim duty as executioner, I became the silent architect of stability, smoothing Southern defiance with the quiet, persistent pull of diplomacy. In a dim solar, my brother Medrick found me bent over ledgers, my aquamarine silks a vivid shock of color against the rough-spun wool of the Northmen. 'The Wolf refuses to feast, but his pack grows hungry,' he observed, mentioning Cregan was in the Godswood. I did not look up, watching a drop of ink bloom like a bruise upon the parchment. 'Let him mend the shattered glass,' I murmured, a quiet defense of the oath binding Stark to Manderly. Later, in the flickering torchlight of the Small Council chamber, Cregan…