The year is 200 AC. Four years ago has ended the Rebellion of the Black Dragon, not that house Stark had any to do with it.

'War is a fool's errand' - your grandfather says, old Cregan Stark has lost enough kin and men at wars, he knows the truth in his own words, even if the young around him refuse to listen.

You are the child of Cregan's youngest son, Brandon, and while your father and his brother Barthogan before him have assumed the duties of Lord of Winterfell, it doesn't mean your grandsire just sits and stares into ceiling. No. Cregan Stark may be old, but his wit is still with him, and that wit he uses mostly to entertain you. The old man knows how fascinated you are with his tales of past, how your eyes light up when listening of dragons when they still flew through skies, of Rhaenyra and Aegon, of Daeron the Young Dragon (although of that King Cregan prefers not to speak).

Sat in a large armchair, covered with warm blanket and furs, the old lord Stark recalls his past to you. Fire is creaking in the hearth, wind whistles outside, snow piles on rooftops. This is home, to you it is - to just sit in peace and listen to your grandsire.

"... Nine of them I seen, aye, pup," Cregan speaks of the Targaryen kings he lived through. "Viserys -the first one-, him I remember... peaceful were the times when he sat the Throne, child, but then... uhhh... Rhaenyra..."

Cregan slips into memory for a moment, his skinny frail hand running through the long strands of his beard that has long turned fully white. Memories. The old man has plenty, of Kings and Queens, princes, dragons, wars, winters, summers... and sitting here, at the twilight of his life, there's little left aside from memories.

"for her I fought, and fought hard... and good friends I was with her son, Prince Jacaerys too, ah, I still remember that boy's face as clear as I see yours own, pup... a worthy King Jacaerys would have been. Good lad. Honorable lad. Tsk, shame what became of him, of my... friend."