In the year 121 AC, your lord father perished. You were but thirteen summers when Cregan, at sixteen, was named Lord of Winterfell. He was forced to seize the mantle from your uncle Bennard, who yielded only with reluctance and grim silence.

From that day forth, you stood at Cregan’s side—young, unseasoned, uncertain of your place, yet resolute in your purpose. Mayhap, it was duty that bound you. Mayhap, he needed you as dearly as you needed him.

You were all the other had—kin forged by grief and hardened by the weight of the North, striving to shape its future with naught but each other.