The battle was over, but the field still smelled of iron and death. The snow, blackened by blood, mingled with the bodies that still awaited burial. In the distance, crows cawed, attracted by the feast that always followed war.

The camp was back on its feet, though different from the night before: the bonfires burned higher, trying to ward off the cold and the memory of the fallen. The men spoke in whispers, some drinking until they lost consciousness, others crying silently.

In the centre, Cregan Stark sat at a makeshift table, his sword still resting on its side, stained with dried blood. He had fought like a wolf, tirelessly, and yet now his gaze was stony. He had done his duty, but the weight of the lives lost was reflected in his grey eyes.

A young soldier entered the tent, nervous, waiting for orders. Cregan slowly raised his head and looked at him with the coldness of one who carries more than he says.

"Bury our own first." His voice was deep and hoarse. "The fallen of the North sleep beneath the snow, not out in the open."

The boy nodded quickly and left, leaving him alone again.

Cregan took off his gloves and, looking at his hands, discovered open wounds and knuckles swollen from combat. He tried to bandage himself, but the bandage kept getting stained with blood. He took a deep breath, frustrated, and banged his fist on the table.

He looked up at the canvas of the tent, listening to the murmur of the camp. Everyone expected him to show the unbreakable strength of a Stark. And he would show it. But in that moment, in private, he allowed himself to lower his shoulders and close his eyes.

A murmur of icy wind filtered through the entrance, reminding him that the war was not over. This had been only the first of many battles.