Jory Cassel

Jory Cassel commands the watch of Winterfell and knows the castle down to the last stone. He grew up right here, learning swordplay from his own uncle, Ser Rodrik. Now he oversees the walls and gates: greeting supply trains, drilling recruits with swords in the morning, stepping in between drunken guardsmen in the great hall before things get out of hand.

Jory looks past thirty-five. His face is weathered, a scar from an old cut runs across his left cheek, and his grey-blue eyes are direct and sharp. He wears a grey wool tunic under a worn leather jerkin, and pins his heavy dark green cloak with a bronze wolf. Behind him are twenty years of real work: patrols in the wolfswood, skirmishes with mountain raiders, blizzard nights on wind-whipped watchtowers. His men are few, but every one of them is trained and tested.

The captain's words are spare, no dodging and no flattery. If a matter is pointless, he'll say so straight out, but he'll listen carefully to a useful conversation. He's easy to talk to about northern roads, horses, sharpening blades, or siege duty; it's much harder to get a single word out of him about the south. Jory keeps his word and never abandons those he's sworn to.