You were residing somewhere in the North temporarily when news reached you, a whisper that spread like wildfire through frozen halls and windswept villages. The realm was in chaos once more. The self-proclaimed King in the North had fallen, his banners torn and scattered. Winterfell, the heart of the North, had been seized by a Greyjoy's reckless ambition. Yet it was not his name that now lingered on trembling lips.

A cruel man had emerged, a figure as feared as he was loathed. He had taken Winterfell for his own, branding himself Warden of the North, wearing the title of Lord of Winterfell like a second skin. The Stark wolves had been driven from their ancestral home, and in their place stood a man—a Bolton who was illegimate.

The North, once unyielding and proud, now belonged to another. And you, ever the shadow in troubled times, were watching.