Cregan, the young Lord of Winterfell, rose from his seat.
The lords fell silent, watching the Stark with solemn intensity as he prepared to speak.
Cregan reached behind his shoulder and slowly drew the massive greatsword from his back.
Ice.
The greatsword forged of Valyrian steel was five feet long and a palm's width wide; the dark blade shimmered with ripples of light like flowing water.
It was the ancestral blade of House Stark, passed down for a thousand years.
He raised the sword high. The hearth fire caught the blade, reflecting a cold light that mirrored the iron resolve on his young face.
"Since they give us no path to live," he said, every eye in the room fixed upon him, "then let there be war."
His voice was not loud, but every word was driven into their hearts like a nail.
"I will lead the Northmen to forge a path to survival."
He pressed the razor edge of the blade against his palm and pulled.
Blood welled up instantly, flowing down the Valyrian steel and dripping onto the ancient stone floor.
He smeared the blood across his face, from his left cheek to his right, leaving a jagged, crimson streak.
His expression was fierce, a primal fire burning in his eyes.
The wolf's blood in his veins was boiling.
"Kill the False King!" Cregan roared with every ounce of his strength.
The council chamber erupted in a thunderous, answering roar.
"Kill the False King!" "Kill the False King!" "Kill the False King!"
Maester Raymun stood in the shadows of the corner, watching it all. He let out a silent sigh.
The Warden of the North had finally entered the war. This move by the Iron Throne was simply too ruthless.
It had backed the North into a corner, leaving them no choice but rebellion.
Was Aegon II a fool? Maester Raymun was certain now: he was an absolute imbecile.
He thought of the news flowing from the Citadel. The Green factions in the South had already begun massing their power.
The Hightowers were marching north with twenty thousand men, the Lannisters had ten thousand, and the Crownlands could muster another ten thousand.
If the Greens were determined, organizing an army of a hundred thousand would not be difficult.
In the Vale, Lady Jeyne Arryn had begun summoning the Knights of the Vale.
Those knights were peerless in Westeros, clad in heavy plate armor, moving like mobile fortresses on horseback.
As long as they did not encounter a dragon, the Knights of the Vale were sufficient to crush an army of tens of thousands.
The Lords of the Riverlands, too, could scrape together over ten thousand men.
How many would die in this war? He did not know. He only knew that many would perish for the vanity of the Targaryens.
The Maester looked at Lord Cregan.
The young Stark stood there; the air in the hall was cold, the blood on his face had dried into a stark stain, and his eyes were unwavering.
Raymun remembered how Cregan had been under his tutelage since childhood.
He had taught him history, arithmetic, and how to be a competent Warden of the North.
He remembered when Cregan was a boy, his favorite question was:
"Maester, why are the Southerners so rich and have so much food, while we in the North are so poor?"
The Maester would always answer: "Because the Southern lands are fertile and produce in abundance."
Then Cregan would say: "Then why don't we just take it from them?"
He would always sigh: "Child, we cannot steal. We are Lords who protect the land and the people, not bandits."
Now, Cregan was truly going to take it.
Not because he wanted to be a thief, but because if he didn't march south to seize what they needed, his people would starve.
He saw Cregan turn his head to look at him.
"Maester Raymun."
The old Maester bowed slightly.
"Issue the summons to every man between the ages of forty and sixty," Cregan said, his voice steady.
"Tell them the Iron Throne intends to cut off our food. If they do nothing, their families will starve during this long winter."
He paused, a dark weight settling over his words.
"I am calling the Winter Wolves."
Maester Raymun felt a chill grip his heart.
The Winter Wolves.
It was an ancient Northern tradition.
Long before the Targaryens conquered the Seven Kingdoms, whenever a long winter loomed, the North would gather the old men, those who knew they would not survive the season, to form the Winter Wolves and march south to seize grain.
Those greybeards knew they didn't have long to live; to ensure their families survived the winter, they fought with an insane, suicidal ferocity.
They were berserkers.
Later, after the Targaryens conquered the continent, they promised to assist the North with half their needed grain every long winter to pacify them.
The tradition of the Winter Wolves raiding the South had slowly faded into memory. Now, it was starting again.
"How many can we muster?" Cregan asked.
Maester Raymun calculated quickly in his head. The Northern population wasn't large, but men between forty and sixty...
"Thirty thousand," he said.
"With the elites of each house, we can muster around thirty-five thousand in total."
Cregan nodded. "Each house will provide a portion of its elites. We will form a vanguard of five thousand to rendezvous in the Riverlands. The rest of the Winter Wolves will follow afterward."
The Lords nodded their ascent one after another.
"Good." "So be it." "We follow the Stark."
Karstark stepped forward, laughing hoarsely.
"My Lord, rest easy. My Karstark men will be at the very front. Those boys of mine have been itching for a fight; they're bored out of their minds at home."
Dustin slapped his armor.
"My Dustin men won't be second to anyone. The horsemanship of Barrowton's riders is far superior to that of Southern prancers."
Lord Manderly sighed.
"The fleet of White Harbor can transport troops. Regarding grain for the march... I will do my best to scrape it together."
Cregan looked at him.
"Lord Wyman, I know the granaries of White Harbor are tight. Gather what you can. Once we seize food in the South, you will be the first to be resupplied."
Manderly nodded heavily and said no more.
Flint smiled, squinting his eyes.
"My Lord, I've long wanted to try my hand at shooting a dragon."
Lady Mormont spoke up in her coarse voice:
"The women of Bear Island can fight too. I'll leave the women to guard the island and bring all the remaining men."
The other Lords looked at her with respect; her husband had been dead for over twenty years, and she held the island together alone.
Bear Island was the northernmost point of the North, with the smallest population, where often even the women had to take up arms against raiders.
Cregan looked at them, a nameless emotion rising in his chest. Was it sorrow? Gratitude? He couldn't say.
He simply nodded. "Good."
Lord Ryswell suddenly spoke up.
"My Lord, a question."
Cregan looked at him.
"What is it?"
"When we march south, where will the food come from?"
The council chamber fell silent for a moment. This was the practical, undeniable problem. An army needs to eat, and horses need fodder.
Thirty thousand men marching south would consume an astronomical amount of food every single day.
Cregan was silent for a moment.
"We take it," he said. Everyone stared at him.
"Wherever we fight, we seize. The Southerners' grain is our grain."
Dustin grinned, a feral look in his eye.
"Now that sounds right."
Karstark clapped his hands in approval.
"Yes! Raid them, eat their food, let them know the power of the Northmen!"
"My Lord, will this...?" Lord Manderly sighed heavily.
"Will this not incite the hatred of the Southern people?"
Cregan was silent for a while.
"Lord Wyman," he said softly, "if we do not take it, our Northmen will starve. If we do take it, the Southerners will hate us. Which do you choose?"
Lord Manderly found no words to answer.
Cregan continued.
"I, too, thought of staying neutral and negotiating with the Targaryens. But they gave us no choice. They cut our lifeblood and demanded I kneel in atonement."
He paused, his grip tightening on Ice.
"Since they choose to force us into rebellion, then let there be war."
Maester Raymun stood in the corner, listening to these words with a heart full of conflicting emotions.
He remembered the ancient Southern songs that sang of the Winter Wolves coming south to raid.
In those songs, the Winter Wolves were demons and bandits, a nightmare that made Southerners tremble in their beds.
But the songs never sang of the truth: that those old men fought so their children back home could live.
The songs never sang that when they marched south, they had already accepted death.
The songs never sang that each of them had a name, a family, and a story.
Maester Raymun exhaled. He thought of the maesters at the Citadel, spending their days studying history, numbers, and how to make the world better.
Yet they had never figured out how to let the Northmen survive a long winter without depending on the mercy of others.
Cregan raised his head and looked at everyone.
"My Lords," he said, "this war is not for ourselves. It is for everyone in the North. It is so that our children can survive this winter. It is so our wives don't have to watch us starve. It is so our elders don't have to walk out into the blizzards to die."
His voice grew heavy with the burden of his ancient seat.
"So, I ask this of you all."
The Lords were silent for a moment. Then Karstark spoke.
"My Lord, rest easy," he said.
"We Northmen never abandon our own."
Dustin nodded. "The Southerners don't understand that. That is why they have lost so many times."
Flint smiled. "Let's show them what the North truly is."
Lady Mormont said gruffly, "When the fighting is done, I'll buy you all a drink. Bear Island's liquor is much stronger than that Southern wine."
A burst of grim laughter echoed in the council chamber. Cregan smiled, too.
But in his smile, there was a trace of bitter sorrow.
He knew that from this journey, thousands of them would never return.
But he had no other choice.
-----
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