[h2]Cregan[/h2]

Snowfall, once again. It was happening more and more frequently, the white and ethereal droplets of an hourglass that only signaled the grim times. The ones that once held the Crown winter knew it the most, and as such, the motto of the Starks warned about the inexorability of Winter. Like an implacable foe that cut with a thousand swords of ice, and ten thousand arrows of cold winds. Who turned the living into stone with mere touches, and rob the very warmth of the soul. And according to the legends, capable of going even beyond that. Something that had gone beyond so far beyond comprehension of men, that the Wall had to have been built, in order for the icy miasmas called blizzards and frosts would not extinguish the titillating flames of life.

Outside the walls of Winterfell, a cadre of men were loading and unloading carts, drafted by hardy beasts who barely paid attention to the climate, content with eating whatever feed they had been offered. Among them, the Warden of the North was personally overseeing every bit of their industrious work, as they unloaded and loaded supplies from one cart to another. From quarry to quarry. The lord stood tall, strong and proud as he was. A young lord in the prime of life. Courageous and skilled. And yet, his face was devoid of joy, the ever perpetual grim shadow of a frown in his face. Even if it was autumn, it still felt like Winter already. His fingers were numb, and his lungs ached somewhat, possessed by a deep cold that permeated every fibre of his being. But it was not all due to the weather. In fact, it was because he was missing the flame of life of his wife. Only her comforting arms could shake the cold out of him. They said wolves mated for life, and Stark felt that maybe he had more in common with them that he found initially. But he had to shoulder on. He had to be strong. Winter was coming. He had to be there for Rickon, for his subjects, sometimes even friends, who looked up to him. 

Cregan sighed, as he eyed the last of the carts being loaded. For the past weeks he had traded his sword with the quill, his mighty northern warriors by a cadre of scribes and maesters, dedicated to redistribute the stocks of all the harvests that were happening throughoutly his entire domain. Everything had to moved around, so the deaths by starvation would hopefully be few. 

"See that Manderly shares some of the food surplus with Umber and Mormont." Stark said to his aide, a wiry scribe who jotted furiously. "In return, Manderly may draft some hands from Umber and Mormont to proceed with dock repairs and refurbishing of White Harbor." Cregan announced as he stroke his chin. "We're a bit behind schedule. There's not enough hands nor harvest as I'd like to." He said to the aide once more as he eyed the scenery once more. 

"Sir, what about Skagos?" The clumsy aided dared to suggest, as he saw his lord's scowl be more exaggerated, as he mused.

"What indeed. Skagosi have never cared about Winterfell in these years, citing my ancestor time after time." He sighed, as he eyed the unforgiving sky. "But Winter makes all of us brethren, doesn't it? Send a raven to Skagos. Tell them we're swapping sea blubber and skins for vegetables and peat from the Neck. The blubber will be apprecited in the Neck, I am sure. But I won't have my hopes up, they will simply ignore it as they always do." Cregan gripped the pommel of his sword as he gritted his teeth.

[i]Goodness, my Love. What kind of mad world I must raise our son in. Every single person will find a petty reason to start trouble...[/i] He became sunken in thought. The familiar beckoning of a female voice and the panting and heavy pounding on the snow awake him of his thoughts. The only other two members of his inner circle, besides Rickon, were there. Arsa Snow, the half-sister of his, her factions obscured by a warm cloak and grey clothes, yet the mischievous locks of hers poked from underneath. She was gripping a finely carved bow as she moved sharply, like the Stoat she was often called. To her side, much to his chagrin, was the Direwolf whom he had shared many moments with. The huge, black savage beast that was Marrow was following her rather playfully, his tail wagging and his tongue drooping like if he were just a young puppy not yet weaned from its bitch.

[i]Damn you Marrow, I always knew you were a womanizer at heart. How come you two are so bloody close this fast?[/i] He mentally grumbled, a small cynical pang of jealousy assailing his heart.

"Brotheeer" She called in public. Well, this was the north. All hands were helping hands, and the taint of bastardry meant nothing if you could help against the winter. Cregan didn't mind either, after all she was constantly bringing him out of his foul moods."There's a problem."

"...okay. What is it." Lord Stark turned his back to the procedure, just as Marrow came back to his side, brushing against his left flank.

"Ravens, from the Targayens." Arsa said, nonchalantly as she eyed the rookery.

"Well, don't stay there. Bring me the message." He added, sternly.

"Which one?" She asked, confused.

It was then when Cregans' frown smashed in a hundred of pieces, before quickly recomposing. "What do you mean...Arsa?" He asked, the confusion of her sister being apparently contagious.

"There's two of them." The Snow replied, putting a hand to her well shaped but short frame. Cregan's hand moved swiftly and mercilessly.

The [i]facepalm[/i] was heard even by the men who were by the carts. Cregan, without skipping a beat, commanded again. "What are you looking at! Get those carts sorted out!"

[i]Old Gods of the Stream, Forest and Stone... I am surrounded by idiots.[/i] He muttered as he begun to pace back inside the walls of Winterfell.