The air in the Lannister war camp was thick with tension, the scent of sweat, steel, and horseflesh lingering beneath the grand crimson banners that adorned the central command tent. Inside, voices clashed as heated arguments echoed off the heavy fabric walls. Lords, knights, and seasoned commanders bickered over strategies, each man vying to have his voice heard.

"If we march east, we can cut off Stark's supply lines!" one suggested, slamming his gauntleted fist on the table.

"And expose ourselves to Stannis' forces in the south? Brilliant strategy—if our goal is to get slaughtered!" another shot back. "Our focus must be on the Baratheon army. Stannis is a seasoned and dangerous commander, and Renly, though young and green, holds 100,000 men in his army. If they join forces, we will be crushed."

Tyrion Lannister sat in his chair, swirling the deep red wine in his goblet, watching the spectacle unfold with an amused smirk. "Fascinating," he murmured. "A gathering of great military minds, yet none of you can agree on whether to piss standing up or sitting down."

"Lord Tyrion," one of the commanders sneered, "your insight is as welcome as fleas on a hound."

"Ah, but unlike fleas, I have the distinct pleasure of talking back," Tyrion retorted, his smirk widening. "And while you all squabble like hens, my dear brother remains in Stark chains. Perhaps we should consider rescuing him before discussing future failures?"

Another general scoffed. "Why should we waste time on Jaime? He knew the risks when he rode to war. If he's lost, we should focus on securing the throne!"

"They have my son!" Tywin's voice cut through the noise like a blade.

Silence fell. Every man turned toward the Lord of Casterly Rock, whose cold stare held a barely contained fury.

Tywin rose from his seat, his expression carved from stone. "Enough." His voice, though calm, carried an undeniable authority. "Leave. All of you."

The commanders and lords filed out, some grumbling under their breath, others pale from the knowledge they had overstepped. Tyrion remained, taking a slow sip of wine.

"I take it this is where you tell me how I was right all along?"

Tywin exhaled sharply. "You were right to prioritize Jaime's life, but wrong to assume that's my only concern."

Tyrion's amusement faded slightly. "Then what?"

Tywin's eyes darkened. "There's Stannis and Renly Baratheon gathering their armies against us. And there's Torrhen Stark. He is not his father. He is not his brother. He is pragmatic, intelligent, and above all, dangerous.

"You sound almost impressed," Tyrion mused.

Tywin did not smile. "I'd be a fool if I were not. They shouldn't have executed Eddard Stark; then we might have had a chance of striking a deal with the Starks. Now, we must deal with the consequences as well as deal with the greater threat—Stannis and Renly Baratheon."

Tyrion took another sip of his wine, nodding slightly. "I agree. Stannis is the one we should be watching."

Tywin's lips pressed into a thin line. "Which is why you will go to King's Landing. You will be my Hand in my absence and clean up the mess your sister has made."

Tyrion's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Father, if I didn't know better, I'd say you almost trusted me."

Tywin fixed him with a cold stare. "You are a Lannister. And whether I like it or not and you're the lowest amongst us, you are still my son. Do not fail me."

Torrhen Stark stood over the large war map in his tent, surrounded by his most trusted commanders. They spoke of formations, supply lines, and the inevitable conflicts to come. He listened intently, absorbing every detail, weighing every word.

Then the tent flaps opened, and a messenger entered, his face pale, his breath labored. "My lord… I bring grave news. Your father… Lord Eddard Stark… he is dead. He's been executed by King Joffrey."

For a long moment, Torrhen did not react. The world around him seemed to blur, his mind struggling to comprehend the words. Then, as if answering the call of his grief, a howl pierced the air—Orion, his direwolf, mourning.

The gathered men fell silent, heads bowed in respect. Torrhen barely heard their condolences, muttering empty words of sympathy. He excused himself, moving away from the tent, away from the camp, away from the suffocating weight pressing on his chest.

The woods swallowed him, the towering trees offering a silent reprieve. Orion followed, his massive form pressing close as if sensing his master's agony. And then, away from watchful eyes, Torrhen collapsed to his knees.

He wept.

The grief was a tempest, raging inside him, tearing through every memory, every lesson, every word his father had ever spoken. He thought of the long hours spent in the training yard, of his father's steady hand guiding his own as he loosed his first arrow. Of the countless times they had ridden together, discussing history, honor, duty. Of the quiet moments by the hearth, the laughter at their family table, the warmth that had once been his world.

Orion whined, pressing his head against Torrhen's shoulder. The direwolf's presence was grounding, but it did little to ease the gaping wound in his soul.

Then, footsteps. Soft, deliberate. He looked up and saw her—his mother.

Catelyn Stark stood before him, her own grief written in the lines of her face. Behind her, Grey Wind, Lady, and Nymeria padded forward, their golden eyes gleaming in the dim light.

Wordlessly, she knelt beside him, and Torrhen leaned into her embrace. They clung to each other, mother and son, bound by sorrow.

And then—

Grief turned to steel.

Pain became purpose.

Catelyn's hand tightened around his. "They will pay."

The direwolves lifted their heads, their mournful howls shifting into something else—something raw, something vengeful.

Torrhen rose to his feet, his tears drying in the cold night air. His father was gone. But the wolves remained.

"Winter is coming," he whispered.

And their enemies would learn to fear the storm.