It had been a long morning in the Great Hall of Winterfell. Queen Rose Stark sat beneath the carved direwolf throne, the chill of the stone seeping through the fur-lined seat. One by one, the lords of the North had come before her — with border disputes, tax grievances, and aid after the war. But the last petitioner, a black-clad ranger of the Night’s Watch, had spoken of stranger things. Dead men walking beyond the Wall. Villages gone silent.

The hall had fallen still when his words echoed through it. Rose listened, her face unreadable, fingers resting lightly on the pommel of her sword. When the man finished, she nodded once. “Send word to the Lord Commander, The Watch shall have what aid it needs.”

War had been easier than ruling. Northern Independence had created opportunities, yet created hardship as well. She turned her gaze to the gathered lords and lifted a hand toward the next man waiting at the foot of the dais. “My lord,” she said. “You have a petition?”