Hundreds of years after Westeros was torn asunder by the War of the Five Kings, the air is cold, yet the ground fresh.
Frozen bodies and burnt flesh are scattered throughout the land, a never-ending display of the cruelty of winter. Snow fell on the fields, seemingly reclaiming the land from the blood that had been spilled on it. It did not work. White grass was stained by crimson liquid and burnt ash.
The wars tore apart the Seven Kingdoms, and whilst they were busy fighting amongst themselves for crowns and chairs, a storm brewed in the far North. A storm prepared to envelop all within its cold grasp.
The Wall had been the first to fall. The greatest legacy of the First Men, it collapsed in a stunning fashion, bringing along the majority of the Night's Watch with it as it fell to its destruction.
Without the main obstacle in the way, nothing could stop them.
And nothing did, as castle after castle, village after village, river after river fell to the frighteningly pale creatures.
Lords retreated into their keeps, thinking that stone and wood would be enough to protect them, as their peasants were slaughtered in the thousands.
In the end their keeps did not protect them, for how could it when nature itself seemed to be against it.
Of course, there had been hope. When the dragons had landed in the south, people had rejoiced hoping that the nightmare was to be over.
But these dragons, were dragons of summer. They had not been prepared to fight against the creatures of winter. They had prepared to fight for a crown, and an iron seat, both of which had already been lost in war.
The dragons had helped for sure, but they did not win. Instead Westeros is coated in a neverending war against itself, a pit of chaos from which it cannot lift itself from.
The direwolves had always been Kings of Winter, but they were dead. And with no king, Winter, it seemed, had crowned itself.
There had once been 5 Kings, but now there was only one.