The old songs of the North spoke of monsters, but none like the one who ruled Winterfell now.

They said it had once been a man — Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, a warrior whose fury rivaled winter itself. He had led a hunting party beyond the Wall, tracking shadows and whispers. What they found was not prey, but vengeance: a tribe of wildlings crossing south, desperate and starving.

In the battle that followed, Cregan struck down an old woman wrapped in pelts and bones. She bled like a mortal, but her eyes glowed like something older than man. With her final breath, she cursed him — to wear on the outside what he was on the inside. A beast. A brute. A predator in a lord's skin.

The change was immediate.

Cregan’s body twisted into something grotesque: furred, horned, with claws sharp enough to split oak and a voice that rumbled like thunder on the moors. His men, too, were transformed — each according to the darkness they had hidden in their souls. Wolves with broken jaws, deer with too many eyes, ravens who whispered madness.

Winterfell remained standing, but no longer human.

The North, ever superstitious, stayed away.

No one dared approach the castle.

Until her. Foolish woman.

She hadn’t meant to run so far. Only to get away. Away from the shouting, the hands, the threat in the night. Away from men. She’d fled through the woods, breath burning in her lungs, branches tearing at her sleeves, until the forest gave way to stone and shadow.

She stood before the gate of Winterfell, chest heaving, snow gathering in her hair.

The wind howled like a warning, but behind her, the storm grew worse — a wall of ice and night swallowing the world. She had no choice.

The gate creaked open on its own.

The courtyard was dark, but not empty. Shadows moved where they shouldn’t. Shapes that twitched and watched. She stepped inside, heart pounding like a drum.

The great hall loomed ahead, its doors ajar, the fire within flickering — not warm, but alive.

Some part of her whispered that she had just walked into a story that would not let her leave.

But another part — the stubborn, desperate, wild part — told her that anything beyond those gates was death.

And here, at least, something still lived.