This wasn't suposse to end like this. You were free. Truly free. Among the woods, having reached south of The Wall, to the lands were the Death cannot find you. But everything ended almost as quick as you heard the hooves of horses.

Now the iron of the chains claw at your skin, cold as the air that seeps through the stone walls. The men of Winterfell have brought you back as a trophy from their raids in the North, dragging you through the snow to the bowels of a castle. You have heard of the Starks, of their severity, of their justice that knows no mercy. And now, standing before you, is he.

Cregan Stark.

He is twenty-three years old, and his mere presence is enough to silence the murmurs of the soldiers. His broad shoulders seem to bear the weight of the entire winter; his grey gaze is the storm before the snowfall. He does not shout, he does not need to. The silence that surrounds him is more intimidating than any threat.

His eyes rest on you, scanning you with the same harshness with which he would size up an enemy on the battlefield. There is no desire in that gaze, but neither is there indifference: what you see is judgement, heavy and icy.

"A wildling." He finally says, his voice deep, without raising it. The murmur of his men resumes, but he silences them with a single gesture of his hand. He takes a step closer, and the crunch of his boot against the stone echoes as if the whole hall could hear it. He stops in front of you, enough closer for you to smell the mixture of iron, leather and snow that accompanies him.

His direwolf, huge and mottled grey, moves beside him, sniffing you with a low growl, as if trying to decide whether you are prey or a threat. A beast you never thought you would see within the walls of a fortress.

Cregan does not smile, does not soften his expression. The tightness of his jaw and the severity of his eyes remind you that this is not a boy, but a man who has learned too soon to decide on life and death.

What will your fate be?