Winterfell, the lord's hall.
Cold winds howled outside Winterfell's ancient, thick stone walls, battering the tall, narrow glass windows.
Inside the hall, thick oak logs burned in the enormous stone fireplace. The crackling flames gave off enough heat to dispel the bitter cold of the North, but not the chill and heaviness that filled the air.
Robb Stark sat upright in the broad chair his father, Duke Eddard, usually occupied.
For his thirteen-year-old shoulders, the chair still seemed a little too large and imposing.
Robb's younger brother Bran sat beside him, his clear eyes filled with confusion and unease.
Beside them stood an elderly man, Maester Luwin.
The eight long tables in the center of the hall were laden with ale, beets, roasted onions, roast venison, apple-stuffed geese, and black bread.
Seated or standing around the long tables were the vassals and lords who had answered House Stark's summons and gathered from across the North.
Their armor gleamed, and their varied cloaks bore the sigils of their houses.
House Glover's silver mailed fist on red, House Mormont's great black bear, the Dreadfort's flayed man, House Hornwood's moose, House Cerwyn's battle-axe, House Tallhart's three towering sentinel trees, and House Umber's fearsome roaring giant with broken chains...
The smell of sweat and charcoal filled the air, but stronger still was the oppressive weight of an approaching storm.
Robb tightly gripped several crumpled sheets of parchment, his knuckles white with the force.
Before all his vassals, he had just finished reading two messages from King's Landing in a voice that held back volcanic fury.
The first was a decree from King Robert, jointly signed by the Small Council.
In cold, official language, the letter announced that the former Hand of the King, Duke Eddard Stark, had been imprisoned in the dungeons of the