when they speak of the Queen in the North, it is in hushed whispers, as they would speak of a god. for though she carries the look of her mother, she is no Tully. she is not even a Stark. she is the North itself, in all its beauty and ferocity. those of her court gaze upon her in all her splendor and wonder, if they were to reach out and grasp her arm, would they feel flesh, or ice and steel? her people love her as they love their land: tempered with fear. for the North is harsh and her anger terrible. love her freely and deeply, but always with respect, or she will eat you alive. {x}
