As he stood on the precipice of treachery, conflict churned within him. He was betraying those who had once welcomed him, yet retreat was not an option. The air was thick with tension as they prepared to land in the north, ready to lay siege to Winterfell.

He was an ironborn, the prince of the Iron Islands, the last surviving son of Baelon Greyjoy. Loyalty to his lineage demanded this action, yet an unexpected sense of remorse tugged at him. He was not a Stark; his blood and duty lay elsewhere, but the gravity of his choice weighed heavily on his conscience.

With a steely resolve, he turned to his men and issued the command, his voice cutting through the air. “Winterfell falls today.” Despite the resolve in his words, a flicker of doubt lingered in his heart, a deep-rooted unease that accompanied the burden of his lineage, Winterfell falls today like the snow... his snow