The nights in the North were as cold as a sharpened blade, growing increasingly frigid with the approach of the long winter.
Inside the council chambers of Winterfell, the hearth fire crackled and spat, yet the chill still seeped through the crevices of the ancient stones, burrowing deep into the marrow of every lord present.
Cregan Stark sat upon his high seat, his face set in a tight, grim mask.
He had just turned twenty and had held the mantle of the North for only three years.
In that short time, he had worked diligently and conscientiously, not daring to slacken for a moment.
He had believed that as long as he ruled justly and prepared well, he could lead the North safely through the impending winter.
But a single letter had shattered everything. A raven from King's Landing.
Over a dozen men stood before his dais.
Bolton, Dustin, Flint, Karstark, Manderly, Mormont... every prominent house of the North was represented here.
At this moment, not a single lord bore a pleasant expression.
"My Lord!" Lord Roderick Dustin stepped forward, waving a piece of parchment so violently that his grip had crumpled it.
"The Iron Throne insults the North!"
The Lord of Barrowton was in his forties, with a face of rugged, weather-beaten flesh and a notoriously explosive temper.
His house had guarded Barrowton for generations.
Having fought countless skirmishes against the Ironborn and crawled his way out of piles of corpses, he was the last man to tolerate such an indignity.
"Listen to what is written here!"
He unfurled the letter, his booming voice echoing through the vaulted chamber.
"Due to the ambiguous collusion between the Northern clans and the rebel Rhaenyra, I am forced to doubt your loyalty."
"'The distribution of the long winter grain is hereby suspended.'"
"'Should Lord Cregan wish to travel to King's Landing in person and kneel in atonement before the Iron Throne, we may consider re-evaluating this matter!'"
Furious, he slammed the letter to the stone floor and stomped on it.
"Kneel in atonement?! Who does Aegon II think he is? A snot-nosed brat expects the Warden of the North to ride to King's Landing just to grovel before him?!"
Another lord stepped forward.
"There is more!"
It was Omar Flint. Tall and whip-thin, he usually kept his eyes half-lidded, but now they were wide with rage.
"Look at the final sentence! 'Lords of all territories are forbidden from supplying grain to the North; violators shall be dealt with as traitors!'"
He let out a cold, bitter laugh.
"The Greens! They intend to starve us alive!"
"My Lord!"
Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor, the wealthiest man in the North, stepped forward. His voice was as deep as rolling thunder, making ears ring.
"We have maintained the utmost restraint. Our refusal to participate in this southern war was already the greatest kindness we could offer the Targaryens. Now, not only do they cut off our royal relief, but they also order the southern kingdoms to impose an embargo on us. This is an attempt to pull us up by the roots!"
He paused, taking a heavy breath.
"The granaries of White Harbor cannot last through this winter. They simply cannot!"
A suffocating silence fell over the council chamber. Cregan sat on his high seat, saying nothing. He knew Manderly spoke the grim truth.
White Harbor was the wealthiest domain in the North, boasting the largest granaries.
If White Harbor couldn't hold out, the rest of the North would starve.
He remembered his father's final words before he passed:
"Cregan, remember. The Starks have ruled the North for eight thousand years not by force, but by the hearts of the people."
The North was unforgivingly cold. Summers were short, and winters stretched on relentlessly.
During every long winter, old men would walk out into the freezing blizzards to die, leaving what little food remained for the young.
Children would starve or freeze to death in their mothers' arms.
The eternal burden of the Starks was to ensure that the North survived.
Whenever a long winter descended, the Starks would empty their vaults, wealth accumulated during the fleeting heights of summer, to buy grain and distribute it among the common folk.
After thousands of years of this cycle, the Stark vaults currently held only a few thousand gold dragons, a sum less than a minor southern lord might possess.
But the people of the North remembered. They remembered who allowed them to live.
They always remembered that it was the Starks who guided them through the darkest colds.
'The North remembers.'
"My Lord!"
Lord Karstark stepped forward. A close branch of the Stark bloodline, he was young, sturdy, and fierce.
He slapped his own chest heavily, the resounding thump echoing through the silent hall.
"Since the Greens leave us no path to live, then we march south!"
"Let's go and take it from them, damn it all!"
"The Iron Throne wants to starve us? Let's show them what hunger looks like!"
"Raid them, kill them, let them taste Northern steel!"
"Well said!" Dustin was the first to respond, raising a fist toward Karstark.
"The lad is right! South! Barrowton will provide two hundred cavalry! All hardened veterans who specialize in butchering Ironborn!"
Flint stepped up next.
"Widow's Watch will provide two hundred! My hunters from the Wolfswood have a steady aim; they can shoot the eye out of a dragon!"
Lady Mormont rose to her feet. A woman in her fifties of Ironborn noble origin, she was fiercer than most men.
In her youth, she had followed her kin to raid Bear Island, only to be captured by the late Lord Mormont, who admired his captive so much he forcibly married her.
Widowed for twenty years, she ruled Bear Island with an iron fist.
When the Ironborn dared to raid, she led the vanguard to drive them back herself.
"Bear Island provides one hundred!" her voice rasped, as coarse and commanding as any veteran's.
"All fighters! The bears of my house are stronger than those southern soft-shells!"
Lord Ryswell, a shrewd middle-aged man, stepped forward.
"I will provide fifty cavalry and two hundred infantry. I can also scrape together some grain to sustain the march."
Lord Cerwyn, a young man with boiling blood who had only recently inherited his house, spoke up.
"I provide one hundred! All trained cavalry of my house, ready to practice their steel on southerners!"
Lord Tallhart was the eldest present, his beard stark white, yet he stood with a back straighter than anyone in the room.
"House Tallhart provides eighty cavalry. Not many, but they were all raised by my own hand. One is worth three of theirs."
One after another, the pledges rang out.
"We provide sixty!"
"We provide one hundred and twenty!"
"We provide fifty, but we can contribute more food!"
Cregan watched them, a fierce, warm current rising in his chest. This was the North. These were his vassals.
Ordinarily, they bickered, quarreled, and bowed to no one but a Stark.
But when life and death were on the line, they stood together as one unbreakable shield. Just like their fathers. Just like their ancestors.
"My Lord!" Karstark looked at the pensive young Stark and spoke again.
"I know what you are thinking. Dragons. We are marching to fight a war against dragons."
He grinned, flashing a row of white teeth.
"So what?"
"Isn't it just dragon slaying?" he laughed wildly.
"I believe Northmen can do it!"
A roar of blazing approval erupted in the council chamber.
"Aye!"
"Dragon slaying!"
"Let those southern lords and their Targaryen masters see our might!"
Cregan looked at them and let out a deep, internal sigh. He knew these were merely words of bravado.
Dragons were not so easily slain. For thousands of years, countless heroes had set out to slay dragons, only to end up as scorched bones and charcoal.
Aegon the Conqueror had brought all of Westeros to its knees with just three dragons.
But he could not say it. He could not speak the grim truth at this moment and crush the roaring confidence of his vassals.