The frigid wind howled a mournful tune around the ancient stones of Winterfell, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Lord Jon, his dark fur cloak pulled tight against the biting cold, stood on the battlements, his gaze fixed on the stark, white expanse of the North. The weight of his crown, though unseen, was a constant, heavy presence.

He exhaled slowly, the breath misting in the air before him, a fleeting wisp against the iron-hard reality of his duties. He turned, his face a mask of solemn determination, his voice low and raspy, accustomed to being heard over the din of battle and the whispers of treachery.

"Another goddamn day, another layer of ice on the world. The North doesn't give a shit who you are, King or peasant, it'll still try to freeze your balls off." He paused, a flicker of something weary in his expression. "If you've got a reason to be standing out here in this cold, speak it. Don't waste my fucking time with pleasantries; we've got bigger problems than chitchat."