General POV
Lord Ludd Whitehill sat behind his massive oak desk, the kind of desk that probably weighed more than most castles. It was piled high with maps, papers, and a few things Gwyn was pretty sure were just there for effect—shiny swords, mostly. The man didn't exactly scream "fun-loving," more like "I get my kicks sharpening knives in the dark while listening to slow violin music." His face was set in that permanent scowl, the kind that made it seem like he'd been born with a grumpy expression and never grew out of it. He wasn't exactly the kind of guy you wanted to ask for advice on how to have a good time.
The fire crackled in the hearth, sending flickering shadows across the stone walls. If Gwyn had been here on her own, she might've found it kind of cool—spooky, even. But right now, with her father looming over her like a dark cloud, the room felt like a bad scene from a haunted castle movie. She just wanted to get this conversation over with, so she could go back to pretending she wasn't the daughter of the most "charming" lord in all of Westeros.
Gwyn stood with her arms crossed, not an ounce of intimidation in her posture, despite the fact that she was only a few inches away from Ludd's death stare. She was used to it, though. After years of living with him, the only thing that actually rattled her was his constant, annoying lecture about how she needed to represent the family name. Which—spoiler alert—was what he was about to do now.
"Gwyn," Lord Ludd growled, voice gruff as sandpaper scraping stone. "I've got news for you. You'll be fostered at Winterfell. It's an opportunity—"
"An opportunity," she interrupted with a roll of her eyes so dramatic she was sure her brain might've twisted in the process. She flicked a lock of her dark hair over her shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before. 'Winterfell's noble. Winterfell's important. Winterfell's full of people who like to stare at the snow.' Been there, done that, don't need the re-run."
Her father didn't even flinch. If anything, his glare seemed to deepen, like he was about to carve her name into a stone tablet or something equally grim. But Gwyn didn't care. She'd been through this speech a hundred times.
Ludd leaned forward, those dark eyes narrowing to slits, like he was about to impart really important wisdom—or at least, that's how he made it sound. "But there's one thing you need to remember, and I'll say it slow so it sinks in." He paused, as if expecting some sort of dramatic tension to hang in the air. "You steer clear of the Forresters. They're our rivals, and if I catch wind that you're playing nice with them, I'll—"
"Yeah, yeah," Gwyn said, waving a hand like she was brushing away a fly. She wasn't trying to be rude, well, maybe a little, but she couldn't help it. Her father's lectures had a way of draining the life out of her in record time. "No Forresters. Noted. Got it. Loud and clear."
Ludd's face twitched like he was fighting the urge to blow a gasket. "Do you understand the gravity of this, Gwyn?"
"Yeah, yeah," she repeated, her tone flat, but with just a hint of sarcasm creeping in. "You're a Whitehill, not a Forrester. I'm not about to go sharing tea and gossip with them. Not my style."
The Lord of Highpoint let out a sigh that sounded like he was deflating, but only a little. It was like he was trying to give her a compliment—well, he was, but it still came out like an order. "Good. You've got brains, Gwyn. But don't forget what's important here: the Whitehill name. Our family's future depends on what you do at Winterfell. Your actions will either raise us up or drag us down. So think before you act."
Gwyn nodded slowly, as if pondering this life-altering statement. "Understood, Father," she said, trying to sound serious, but she couldn't help the smirk tugging at her lips. "I'll make sure you're proud."
Ludd grunted, as if that was all he needed to hear. "Good. And remember, stay away from those Forresters."
"Yeah, I'll be on the lookout for any potential Forrester spies or... whatever," she said with a little too much enthusiasm, like she might go hunting for spies as a side gig or something. Honestly, if she had to hear about the Forresters one more time, she might lose her mind. They were literally the last thing she wanted to think about right now.
As she turned to leave, Ludd's voice followed her like a cold wind. "And Gwyn? This isn't just about keeping our enemies close and our allies closer. It's about our family's honor. Don't forget that."
"Honor," she muttered under her breath, just loud enough to make sure he couldn't pretend he didn't hear her. "Yeah, I get it. Family honor. Like that's the most important thing in the world. Don't worry, Father. I'll keep that banner flying high."
Gwyn turned on her heel, practically rolling her eyes again, but at least she was out of the room. She didn't need to hear her father's voice echoing in her head for the next century about how much honor was worth—especially when he probably didn't know the meaning of the word beyond how it looked on a banner.
As she stepped out into the hall, a smirk danced on her face. Winterfell, huh? Maybe it would be boring, maybe it wouldn't. And if she ran into Asher Forrester, she'd play it cool. Or maybe... maybe she wouldn't. Who knew? She wasn't exactly the type to follow anyone's rules.
"Stay away from the Forresters," she mimicked in a high-pitched, mock-serious voice under her breath, snickering at the thought of her father's grumpy face. "Right, like that's going to happen."
And with that, she wandered down the corridor, already planning her next move. Something told her Winterfell was going to be a lot more interesting than Highpoint.
---
At Ironrath, Lord Gregor Forrester stood like a towering mountain, his broad shoulders and stern face carved from a stone that had been through a thousand winters. Asher, his son, stood next to him, practically bouncing in place. The guy had an energy level that could make a lightning bolt feel lazy. If there was one thing Asher Forrester did best, it was turning a quiet moment into a full-blown adventure. He practically radiated mischief—probably without even trying.
"Asher," Gregor's voice rumbled like distant thunder. He didn't need to raise it to get attention. The man's presence was enough. "I have news. You'll be fostered at Winterfell. It's a chance to forge alliances, represent House Forrester, and—" He paused, the way you might pause before delivering an ominous prophecy. "—you must heed my warning."
Asher's blue eyes sparkled, clearly anticipating something exciting. "What is it, Father? Can I bring my sword? I can make alliances, right? Maybe challenge someone to a friendly duel, just to break the ice?"
Gregor's lips twitched in the slightest, like he'd just bitten into a lemon. He wasn't amused. "You are to avoid the Whitehills, especially Gwyn Whitehill. They are our rivals, and I don't trust them. Keep your distance from her. Do you hear me?"
Asher raised an eyebrow. He had that look on his face, the one that said, Yeah, I hear you, but this is probably going to be hilarious anyway. "Gwyn Whitehill? Isn't she the one who's about as fun as a porcupine in a cactus patch? No worries, Father. I'll stay clear. Wouldn't want to ruin her day or mine."
Gregor's gaze hardened, but his tone softened, just enough to let his son know he was serious. "She's not just difficult, Asher. The Whitehills are dangerous. I've been dealing with them for years, and I won't let you get tangled in their schemes. You're a Forrester now. Act like it."
Asher shot a salute that was more theatrical than respectful. "Got it, Father. Keep my distance from Princess Gwyn and her prickly family. No trouble from me. Promise."
Gregor sighed deeply, but Asher could tell it wasn't the sigh of a man who had high hopes. It was the sigh of a man who knew exactly how likely it was that Asher would follow instructions. Asher had a habit of turning every "stay out of trouble" into a grand adventure.
"You're not just a wild boy anymore, Asher," Gregor added, his hand falling heavily onto his son's shoulder, a reminder of the weight of their house. "You're a Forrester. Remember that. You carry the honor of our name."
Asher nodded, his expression shifting to something more serious. For a moment, just a brief moment, he actually looked like a man who understood what his father was saying. But only for a moment.
"You don't have to worry, Father," Asher said, suddenly sounding much more grown-up. "I'll make sure the Forresters are well represented. No one will forget our name. Especially not the Whitehills."
Gregor seemed pleased—at least until Asher's grin resurfaced, and his son's voice rang out like the words of a man who was about to dive into some kind of epic chaos.
"As long as Winterfell doesn't have any dragons, I should be fine, right?" Asher called after him, giving the air a dramatic glance, as if expecting a fire-breathing monster to swoop down at any moment. "How much trouble could I possibly get into there? I mean, it's not like I'm looking to start a war. Just a few friendly skirmishes."
Gregor didn't turn back, but Asher was pretty sure he heard his father mutter something about dragons being the least of his problems.
Asher smirked. Winterfell? Piece of cake. He was definitely going to make an impression there, and whether that impression involved serious trouble, dramatic duels, or just a few too many reckless decisions... well, who was to say?
What kind of adventure was it without a little chaos, after all?
"Don't worry, Father," Asher called again, his voice full of the swagger of a man who had no idea what he was getting himself into. "I'm pretty sure I'll be the one they remember."
With that, he took a few steps back, giving his father one last salute before heading toward the stables. The moment he was out of Gregor's sight, Asher's grin returned full force. Let Winterfell deal with this wild ball of chaos. He was ready to bring a little Forrester flair to the North.
Besides, what was Winterfell without a little bit of trouble to spice things up?
And if a few duels, a couple of rivalries, and maybe a near-death experience were on the agenda? All the better. Asher was already looking forward to it.
---
The wind howled over the frozen plains of the North like a wild animal, but neither Asher Forrester nor Gwyn Whitehill seemed to mind much. They were both on their way to Winterfell, and to them, the cold was nothing compared to what was waiting for them in the heart of the North.
Gwyn sat straight in the saddle, her dark hair whipping in the wind like the cloak of a knight preparing for battle. Her horse's hooves thudded on the hard earth, each step sending up a spray of cold mud that hit her legs like little icy needles. She didn't mind the cold—not like the men who whined about it like it was a personal betrayal. But what did bother her, though, was the thought of being trapped in Winterfell for months, surrounded by people who would no doubt treat her like she was some kind of prize to be won, or worse, ignored entirely. It was the stuff of nightmares for a Whitehill.
She glanced over at the other soldiers on the road, their faces set with grim determination. They didn't look like they were heading for an innocent trip—they looked like they were preparing for war. Her father had told her to keep her wits sharp and her distance from the Forrester boy, and she wasn't about to break that command. The Forresters were just another one of those houses that liked to stir up trouble, and Gwyn had no patience for people who thought they could play the game and win.
Still, she'd heard the stories about Asher. The boy who never knew when to stop running his mouth. The boy who got himself in trouble just for the fun of it. He was a Forrester, after all—daring, brash, and with a reputation that was half myth, half truth. But the truth? Gwyn wasn't so sure. Maybe he was all talk. Maybe not. Either way, she wasn't interested in finding out. She had enough problems of her own without dragging some reckless Forrester into the mix.
Meanwhile, Asher was miles away, thinking about a completely different thing.
It wasn't the cold that bothered him—not anymore, anyway. After years of living in Ironrath, he'd learned to embrace the North's brisk attitude. No, what really occupied his mind was one simple question: Who was this Gwyn Whitehill?
The name had been drilled into his head like a weapon. Don't get too close. Stay away from her. The Whitehills were a rival house, and the last thing his father wanted was a son tangled up in their mess. But Asher was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, the Whitehills were more interesting than his father let on. He'd never met Gwyn, but he'd heard plenty of stories. Apparently, she had a reputation for being sharp-tongued, cold as the ice that covered the North, and a whole lot more capable than people gave her credit for. Asher couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to meet her.
Would she be as fiery as the rumors said? Or was she just another cold-hearted Whitehill hiding behind that icy façade?
And then there was the fact that Asher had a thing for chaos. He wasn't one to shy away from a little trouble—no, he went looking for it. You couldn't be a Forrester and not get your hands a little dirty. The only problem was, the one thing his father had drilled into him more than anything else was: stay away from Gwyn Whitehill. Well, that was going to be a challenge, wasn't it? The universe had a funny way of throwing people together—especially people who were supposed to stay apart.
Asher grinned to himself as his horse plodded along the muddy road. He wasn't worried. He was going to Winterfell, sure, but what was the worst that could happen? He'd deal with the North, with Winterfell, and—if fate was feeling particularly funny—maybe he'd bump into Gwyn. The idea of clashing swords with her wasn't exactly unappealing.
Well, Asher thought, the stories say she's a fierce one. Guess I'll find out soon enough.
Gwyn, miles ahead, was also thinking about Asher. But unlike Asher, her thoughts weren't quite as adventurous. She didn't like the idea of going into the belly of the North only to end up caught in some stupid feud. There was a reason she'd been raised to be cautious and cold. She had a reputation to protect. The Whitehills weren't exactly beloved, and she wasn't about to make things worse by letting some wild, troublemaking Forrester stir things up for her.
Just keep your head down, she told herself. Avoid the Forrester boy. And everything will be fine.
Her horse snorted, almost as if it was laughing at her. Because, of course, the universe had other plans.
The North loomed closer with each passing step. The towering walls of Winterfell were a shadow on the horizon, and soon, they'd both be inside the fortress, stepping into the kind of world where honor meant everything and your reputation could either save or doom you.
Neither Gwyn nor Asher knew it, but they were both about to discover something far more dangerous than they had bargained for: each other.
—
At Last Hearth, things were going exactly as you'd expect when you're talking about the Greatjon Umber—loud, massive, and just a little bit terrifying. If the Greatjon wasn't enough to rattle the stone walls of his hall, his son, Smalljon, certainly could. And by "rattle," I mean "give them a good shake and maybe a couple of cracks," because both father and son were built like walking mountains of muscle, only with more temper and fewer smiles.
Greatjon Umber stood there, his frame so massive he looked like he could probably bench-press a direwolf—if, you know, he felt like it. His beard was thick enough to hide a small army in, and his voice? Well, let's just say that if he wasn't careful, he could shout the wind into submission.
"Smalljon!" Greatjon bellowed, making the stone floor shake beneath them. He wasn't just speaking to his son; he was speaking to the entire hall, even though no one else was there. "You're going to Winterfell, boy. You're gonna be fostered with the Starks and all the other northern pups. Time to show them what the Umber blood can do."
Smalljon, standing next to his father, tried not to shrink under the massive shadow of the man who was clearly built to fight bears, not make friends. But Smalljon was, by all appearances, well on his way to being another Greatjon in the making. He had the bulk, the height, and that same "I'm not sure if he's joking, but I'll laugh anyway just in case" vibe.
"Yes, Father," he said, puffing out his chest like a rooster who'd just been crowned king of the barnyard. He wasn't about to let anyone see him sweat, not even his old man. "I'll make you proud. I'll show them what an Umber can do."
Greatjon gave him a long, lingering look, his face suddenly going serious in a way that made Smalljon wonder if his father even had a sense of humor. The man could likely stare down a thunderstorm until it apologized, and this look was no exception. "Good. But remember this, son." He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a low growl. "We're loyal to the Starks, but don't you forget who you are. You're an Umber. You're not one of their lapdogs. You learn from them, sure. But you don't let them forget who's really in charge around here."
Smalljon nodded, still not sure if this was sage advice or a veiled threat. But hey, it was probably both, right?
"And if anyone—anyone—tells you to smile, I give you full permission to punch them in the teeth."
Smalljon blinked. Was his father joking? Was that a test? He was pretty sure he was supposed to be nodding seriously, but honestly, he didn't know if this was a fatherly don't-let-them-make-you-soft moment or if his dad was really serious about that punch thing. Because knowing Greatjon, that could be just as likely.
"I... I won't forget, Father," Smalljon managed to say. He was pretty sure he was trying to sound just as serious as Greatjon, but let's be honest—when you're being raised by a man who could strangle a bear with one hand, it was hard to look intimidating.
Greatjon gave him a satisfied grunt, like he had just handed down the keys to the kingdom. "Good. Winterfell is full of schemers and wolves in sheep's clothing. If you don't punch the right people in the teeth, they'll eat you alive. You don't want to be their next snack, do you?" He winked, and Smalljon realized that his father's sense of humor—if you could call it that—was as subtle as a sledgehammer.
They started to walk toward the door, and Smalljon couldn't help but feel a little nervous. Winterfell was big. It was cold. And despite what his father said, it was full of people who knew how to play the game. The Starks had history. They had power. And what did the Umbers have? A mountain of muscle and a lot of people telling them to smile.
Oh, yeah, Smalljon thought. This is going to go great.
He was probably just about to walk into a pit of political wolves with a shiny new target on his back. But, you know, he'd survive. He was an Umber. He had his father's blood running through him, and if there was one thing Smalljon knew, it was that Umber blood didn't back down from a fight. Whether the fight was with wolves or people who told him to "show a little emotion," he'd be ready.
"Just remember what I told you, son," Greatjon muttered, walking next to him. "Learn from them, but don't forget who you are. And if anyone makes you feel soft—punch 'em. You hear me?"
Smalljon nodded seriously. "Loud and clear, Father. No smiles, and no soft stuff."
Greatjon slapped him on the back so hard Smalljon nearly tripped over his own feet. "Good man."
And just like that, the doors of Last Hearth closed behind them. The cold, endless wilderness of the North stretched out ahead, and Winterfell loomed on the horizon, a giant fortress of stone, mystery, and danger. Smalljon didn't know what awaited him, but if he was going to make an impression, it was going to be one nobody would forget.
And it was definitely going to start with a lot less smiling.
---
The fire crackled in the hearth like it was trying to burn off all the bad vibes in the room, but honestly? The stone walls were winning. Karhold's study was the kind of room that made you want to huddle up in your furs, pretend you're a wolf, and maybe forget you were even alive. Lord Harald Karstark sat across from his daughter, Alys, his beard looking like it could host a family reunion of ravens. Honestly, if there were ever an Olympic event for looking like you could crush someone with a glare, Harald would've taken home gold, silver, and bronze. He had this aura about him—like if you crossed him, the weather would start getting worse. Which, in the North, is a pretty big threat.
"Alys," Harald said, his voice rough and gravelly, like it had been forged in the cold winds of the farthest reaches of the North. "You'll be fostered at Winterfell. This is your chance to learn, to make connections, and make sure people know House Karstark stands strong. Not just alongside the Starks, but above them when it counts."
Alys didn't flinch. No, she looked up at her father with the kind of intensity that made you think she'd just discovered the secret to surviving a pack of direwolves—and maybe even the secret to her own fate. "I understand, Father. I'll do my best."
Harald didn't smile—because smiling was clearly something that wasn't in his wheelhouse—but his bushy eyebrows twitched, almost like a nod of approval. If his eyebrows had a personality, they'd be the type to start a brawl and then look disappointed when no one else was strong enough to finish it.
"Good. I like that fire in your eyes," Harald said, leaning back in his chair with a grunt that made you think he was about to settle in for a nap but somehow didn't. "Remember, we Karstarks are more than loyal to the Starks. We're not some sidekick house. We're not about to be swept up in their shadows. We stand beside them—but we stand tall. And we never let anyone take that away from us. Not even them."
Alys gave a small, barely-there nod, because, honestly, this was the same speech she'd been getting her whole life. And she'd probably give the same answer as every other time: "I won't forget, Father." But this time, it hit a little different. The Starks were... everywhere. They were practically crawling out of the walls of Winterfell. She was going to be surrounded by them—by their big family, their big history, their big everything—and that small Karstark part of her? Yeah, it wasn't going to be easy to keep from getting lost in that sea of wolves.
But if anyone was going to make their mark in Winterfell, it was going to be Alys Karstark. She wasn't about to be another face in the crowd. She wasn't about to let anyone forget who she was. Not after that whole we-stand-tall speech her father had practically carved into her brain with every passing year.
"I won't forget," she said, her voice sharp like the dagger she kept tucked at her side, fingers tracing its hilt almost absentmindedly. "I'll carry that with me."
Harald's gaze softened, just for a second, like he was looking at something more than his daughter. Maybe something he had built with his own hands, something tough and unyielding like the stone walls around them. Then he gave that same grunt, the kind that meant he approved, or at least wasn't about to throw you into the snow to see if you could survive.
"That's the spirit," he muttered. "Winterfell's a good place to make connections, but don't you forget who you are. You're a Karstark. And as long as you remember that, you'll do just fine."
Alys nodded again, this time with a little more certainty in her movement. She wasn't sure what she was going to find at Winterfell, but she knew one thing for sure: No one was going to get away with thinking she was anything less than a Karstark. She wasn't there to blend in. She was there to make waves.
Just as Harald turned to look out the window, as if pondering the fate of the entire North, Alys took a deep breath and said, "I guess if I'm going to be surrounded by all those Starks... I should start practicing how to outstare a direwolf."
Harald glanced back at her, eyebrows up in that signature Karstark way. "You'll do more than outstare them, girl. You'll outlast 'em."
Alys couldn't help but smile. She was going to need all the stubbornness she could get to survive Winterfell, and maybe a little extra Karstark fire, too.
With that, Harald stood up, his enormous frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow up the study, and he clapped Alys on the shoulder—hard. "Let's get ready, then. The Starks are waiting."
And with that, Alys Karstark, daughter of the storm and the North, stood taller. Maybe she was ready for Winterfell after all.
But first, she'd need to practice that stare. And maybe not get eaten by a direwolf.
(But, seriously, if anyone tried to mess with her, they'd regret it.)
---
At Castle Cerwyn, the hall smelled like a mixture of roasted meats, fresh bread, and that weird, comforting scent of home—the kind of place where nothing too terrible could happen unless you were dealing with an epic kitchen disaster (and let's face it, that's never a fun way to go). Lord Medger Cerwyn, the kind of guy who looked like he'd been a rock in the middle of a storm for his entire life, sat across from his son, Cley. And if Cley had one defining feature, it was that he looked like a man who could stare down danger—or wander off on some wild adventure and somehow make it look like he had the situation totally under control. You know, the type who could get himself into trouble and make everyone around him think, "Yeah, this is fine."
"Cley," Medger said, his voice steady and calm, like someone who had been a voice of reason way too many times. "You'll be fostered at Winterfell. It's a good opportunity. A chance to learn and grow, but also a chance to build ties with the Starks. You know how important that is."
Cley nodded, though he couldn't hide the excitement bubbling behind his eyes. Honestly, it looked like he was half ready to jump out of his seat and start running straight toward Winterfell without even bothering to pack. "I'll do my best, Father," he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "I won't mess it up."
Medger, who'd seen enough wild ideas come and go to fill a library, just smiled. It wasn't the kind of smile that makes people think they're about to get a reward or a treat—it was more like a father who's seen his son survive a hundred reckless adventures and still come out mostly unscathed. "I know you won't." He paused, letting the words sink in, the smile getting a little warmer, but not too warm. "Just remember, Cley, honor our house while you're there. And don't forget how important the bonds you make with the Starks are. They'll be key to our future."
Cley's stomach did a nervous little flip at the thought of Winterfell. He had heard the stories. Oh had he heard them—direwolves, snow, long-haired Starks brooding in every corner of every room. Winterfell was practically a fortress of legendary stuff, and it felt like the type of place where people either grew up into legends themselves or got swallowed up by the snow. And what did Cley Cerwyn have to offer to the Starks? His skills with a sword? His ability to make people laugh at totally inappropriate times? Yeah, he wasn't exactly the next big thing in the world of direwolves and brooding.
Still, he wasn't about to let any of that bother him. No. He was Cley Cerwyn. Son of Medger. And he wasn't going to let some snow-filled legends intimidate him.
He took a deep breath, deciding to go all-in on his confidence. "I won't let you down, Father," he said, trying to sound more assured than he actually felt.
Medger smiled again, this time with a little more warmth, and for just a second, Cley saw something in his father's eyes—a hint of pride, not the kind that was shouted from the rooftops, but the quiet kind. The kind that says, I know you can do it, without ever having to say the words.
"I know you won't, Cley," Medger said, and his tone softened. "Just don't forget who you are, and never lose sight of Castle Cerwyn. It's your home, and it's where you'll always belong."
Cley, feeling a mix of nerves and something else—something like the steadying warmth of responsibility—nodded. He'd make it work. Winterfell might have been full of snow, direwolves, and too many brooding Starks to count, but Cley was Cerwyn blood through and through. And if he had to leave a mark on Winterfell, he would. Maybe not by out-brooding a Stark, but by doing what he did best—making things happen.
He flashed his father a grin. "You can count on me, Father. I'll be the first Cerwyn to walk into Winterfell and make direwolves wonder what's up."
Medger raised an eyebrow, looking at him like he was trying to figure out if his son was serious or just a little too eager. But the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. "I'll take it. But remember—Winterfell isn't a place to show off. It's a place to learn. And trust me, you'll learn plenty."
Cley couldn't help but chuckle, his nerves fading a little. "If nothing else, I'll at least make a few Starks smile."
Medger chuckled too, shaking his head in that slow, fatherly way that made it clear that, no matter how wild his son's ideas were, he'd always have his back. "That's a tall order, son. But don't let anyone think you're just a Cerwyn. Show them what that means."
As Medger stood and turned toward the door, Cley stood up as well, his mind already racing with possibilities, with everything he could learn and do at Winterfell. There was a world out there waiting for him, and he wasn't going to waste it.
"Winterfell," he muttered under his breath, "I'm coming for you. And maybe I'll even survive it."
And with that, Cley Cerwyn, son of Medger, made his way toward his future—full of unknowns, direwolves, brooding Starks, and, just maybe, a few unexpected tricks up his sleeve.
---
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