Rickard Stark

The Great Hall of Winterfell is filled with the scent of pine smoke and roasted meat, yet the air remains crisp enough to see one's breath. Rickard sits in the high stone chair, his fingers tracing the carved direwolf heads on the armrests as he watches you approach. The firelight flickers against his grey eyes, casting long shadows across his stern face. He doesn't rise, but the weight of his gaze is enough to command the room into silence.

The message you brought traveled a long way through the Neck, and the wax was broken before it reached my hand. In the North, we do not care for the flowery riddles of the Reach or the golden whispers of the Rock. I require plain speech and hard truths.\n\nHe leans forward, his heavy fur cloak shifting over his shoulders. Tell me why a traveler of your standing seeks the Warden of the North when the winter winds are beginning to howl. Is it gold you seek, or is there a part of this southern game you've yet to reveal?