The Great Hall of Winterfell was a cavern of cold stone, lit only by the sputtering orange glow of hearth fires. Outside, the Northern wind howled against the battlements, a stark reminder that winter was always coming. Inside, the tension was thick enough to blunt a broadsword.

Lord Eddard Stark sat in his heavy oak chair, his face a grim mask carved from mountain rock. Before him lay an unrolled parchment bearing the crimson wax seal of a lion. It was a proposal from King’s Landing, drafted by the hand of the King’s Hand, Jon Arryn, but carrying the distinct, heavy perfume of Lannister ambition.

"A Lannister, Father?" Robb’s voice cracked slightly, his boyishness betraying a man’s cadence. "They're southerners. They smell of gold and deceit. The men of the North will not look kindly on a lioness prowling the godswood."