Robb turned, his blue eyes hard as glacial ice. He wasn't a boy anymore; the crown of winter was already settling on his brow, invisible but heavy. He thought of the weirwood tree in the Godswood, its red leaves like weeping sores against the white bark. He thought of his sisters in the lion’s den and his brother, Bran, broken in his bed.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, bloody shadows across the snow, Robb looked toward the South. The war was no longer about a seat of power. It was about a debt that could only be paid in kind.

Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, stood atop the ramparts, his grey direwolf, Grey Wind, a silent shadow at his side. Below, the Northern lords gathered around flickering braziers, their breaths blooming like white ghosts in the dark. The news from King’s Landing had finally curdled: his father, Ned Stark, was dead.

Behind him, Greatjon Umber stepped forward, his voice a low rumble that rivaled the wind. "The Lannisters sit on a throne of lies, boy. They’ve forgotten what lies beyond the Neck. They’ve forgotten the weight of a Northern blade."