- Winterfell -

Willam lingered at the edge of the hall, his head bowed low as tears welled unbidden in his eyes. The mournful howls of Bael, Grey Wind, and Shaggydog echoed through the castle's stones, a lament that chilled the blood of all who heard. Their cries carried sorrow and rage alike, howling as though Winterfell itself mourned.

A weathered wagon creaked into the courtyard under a slate-grey sky, returning from the south upon Lord Stark's command. It was said to be carrying the three noble direwolves of his sisters and brother, a bond of the Stark bloodline. Yet what greeted their eyes as the tarpaulin was drawn back was a cage smeared in blood, its iron bars warped and its occupants—gone. The stench of death hung heavy.

Only the testimony of the single man who staggered back told the grim tale. His words spilled like a river's rapid: "Lady Stark," he rasped, his voice ragged with sorrow. "We were beset as the sun fell beyond the hills. Brigands clad in crimson cloaks fell upon us with steel and flame. Seven of us stood to defend, yet they bore us down like wolves upon lambs. Were it not for the river's mercy sweeping me away, I wouldst not stand before thee now."

His tale grew darker still. "When dawn broke, I crept back, my heart heavy. 'Twas then I saw the devilry of men—the beasts slain and flayed, their noble pelts stolen as spoils. The men who traveled with me were robbed of breath and belongings alike."

A murmur of outrage rippled through Winterfell's gathered, thick with wrath and disbelief. Willam, his face pale as the snow, clenched his fists. He growled, "What vile creatures, what monsters of the abyss, would dare such an act?"

Robb stood at his brother's side, his face set in grim determination. "It must be the Lannisters," he said, his voice low, yet each word cut like iron. "Or their Queen for His Grace betrothing the Princess to me. This reeks of vengeance for what passed with Joffrey."

His gaze turned, trailing up from the lichyard to the high tower's solitary window. There, veiled by its cold glass, stood Myrcella, her golden hair a fleeting shimmer. She watched in silence, her expression inscrutable.

"Do you think she knows aught of this wickedness?" Robb asked, his voice a taut string on the verge of snapping.

Willam shook his head, his voice softer now, though no less sure. "How could she? She was here in Winterfell, far from her serpent kin. And she is not her brother."

In truth, Willam had broken bread with the princess at many a feast. She bore herself with a grace uncommon to her lineage, her wit sharp but kind. In her, he had glimpsed no shadow of the cruelty that stained her House. Yet, as the cold wind bit, doubt whispered upon its gusts.

"Father must be told, and the girls... Sansa will be devastated by this," Willam said, his voice trembling as the last of the frozen earth was cast over the casket. Within it lay the remains of Summer, Lady, and Nymeria—a grim and silent testament to the cruelty wrought upon them. The direwolves, once proud and fierce, had been reduced to hollow relics of their former selves.

Later, as the sun dipped low over Winterfell, his mother summoned them to the Godswood. Willam had been lost in the depths of the library, poring over a tome recounting the first invasions of the Andals within the Vale. The crackling hearth and whispered pages had been a welcome solace, but the quiet urgency in his mother's message pulled him from his study.

The Godswood was serene as he approached, the red leaves of the weirwood tree whispering softly in the breeze. Robb stood with Theon by his side, both grim-faced. Their mother, Lady Stark, was there with Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik. Willam was the last to arrive, his curiosity piqued as he stepped into the circle of gathered faces.

"What is the meaning of this gathering, Lady Stark?" Ser Rodrik inquired, his tone respectful yet edged with curiosity.

Catelyn Stark clasped her hands tightly, her fingers twisting as though seeking strength. "What you are about to hear must stay within these walls," she said, her voice steady though tinged with unease. She cast her gaze around the group, her piercing eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. One by one, they swore their silence, until finally, her eyes rested on Willam. He nodded solemnly, and only then did she continue.

"A rider came in the dead of night, shortly after the King's arrival," she began. "He bore a letter—from my sister, Lysa."

"Aunt Lysa?" Willam interjected, his brow furrowing.

"Yes," Catelyn confirmed, drawing a slow, measured breath. "The letter was written in a cipher known only to us as girls. Its message was clear—she believes the Lannisters had a hand in the death of Lord Arryn, her husband."

Robb straightened, his expression hardening. "Why does she suspect them, Mother?"

Catelyn shook her head, her composure faltering as tears glimmered in her eyes. "I do not know the full answer, Robb. But your father departed not merely out of loyalty to the King. He left to uncover the truth behind this dark affair."

She hesitated, her voice trembling as she continued, "And now... this ambush upon the wolves, the slaughter of those noble beasts, and the murder of the men who protected them—it weighs heavily on my heart. These are not isolated acts. They reek of shadowed machinations, and I fear the noose is tightening around us."

The group fell silent, the weight of her words settling like a shroud over the Godswood. The ancient weirwood tree stood as their silent witness, its face carved with solemn eyes, as though it too felt the dread creeping into Winterfell.

Robb's hand gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles whitening as he restrained himself from drawing it outright. "Father, the girls, and Bran—should harm befall them, I'll… I'll not stand idle," he said, his voice taut with fury and trembling resolve.

Theon stepped forward, his voice firm. "If it comes to war, know that I'll stand behind you."

"As will I, brother," Willam echoed, his gaze steady but shadowed with worry.

Ser Rodrik let out a dry chuckle, stroking his beard. "Take thy hand from steel, boy," he said to Robb. "Brash words oft light the flames of folly."

Maester Luwin nodded in agreement, his tone measured. "Ser Rodrik speaks wisely. Such talk of war may soon give way to its reality. Let us not invite doom with rash tongues when we know not the whole truth. Lord Stark yet walks his path, seeking answers."

Willam's face darkened, his worry spilling forth like a tide. "How can he uncover anything?" he asked, his voice rising in frustration. "Alone, in a place he has not called home in nearly twenty years. How does that aid him? The South is no friend to men of the North."

Their mother, Lady Stark, had remained silent through the exchange, her hands clasped tightly before her. She seemed lost in thought, her brow furrowed as though in battle with her own mind. Then, her expression shifted, her eyes brightening with a sudden resolve.

"I know of a man," she said, her voice low but certain, "an old friend who serves upon the Small Council. He would not turn his face from me nor from Ned. If the Lannisters have sown treachery and if Lord Arryn was indeed murdered, this man could help Ned uncover the truth. And if these suspicions bear weight, then the King himself may mete out justice."

Maester Luwin's thin lips curved in a faint smile, and he inclined his head. "Shall I send a raven to his lordship, My Lady? That Lord Stark might make use of this ally?"

"No," Catelyn said quickly, shaking her head. "I trust not a raven to carry such tidings. Too many eyes may read what is meant for Ned alone. No, I shall go myself and speak to him directly."

"No!" The word burst from both Robb and Willam, their voices harmonizing in protest. Robb stepped forward, his brow creased in defiance. "Mother, it's too dangerous! The roads are treacherous, and we've already seen the lengths to which the Lannisters are willing to go."

Willam nodded, his voice fervent. "If you must go, then let one of us ride with you. You shan't face this alone, not with so many shadows gathering."

Lady Stark's gaze softened, her lips pressing into a thin line as she beheld her sons' earnest pleas. The weight of her decision loomed heavy in the frost-laden air of the Godswood, the ancient weirwood standing silent as a keeper of their secrets.

"My sons," Lady Stark's voice was resolute, though her eyes betrayed the storm within. "You are needed here in Winterfell. The North cannot afford to be without its strength, not now."

Robb's jaw tightened, but he did not protest further. Willam, though silent, felt unease prick at his chest, a foreboding that hung heavy like the gathering clouds over the castle walls.

"Let me accompany you, My Lady, at least," Ser Rodrik offered, stepping forward with a hand resting lightly upon the pommel of his blade. His voice carried the steady assurance of a man who had weathered many winters. "The roads are treacherous, and it would be folly for you to travel alone."

Catelyn considered him, her expression a mixture of gratitude and determination. Yet even as she nodded, Willam's thoughts churned. A shadow seemed to loom over their family, an ill omen that crept into his heart like the cold wind through Winterfell's gates. He recalled the candle he had lit earlier in quiet prayer for his father and siblings. The flame had flickered valiantly, but in the end, it was snuffed out by an unseen draft. Now that same sense of dread stirred in his soul.

"If you must go, then may the old gods watch over you," Willam said softly, though his voice carried the weight of his apprehension. The ancient weirwood tree seemed to stand as a sentinel, its red leaves trembling faintly in the breeze as though echoing his unspoken fears.

Catelyn placed a hand upon his shoulder, a fleeting gesture of reassurance. "I shall return, my son," she promised, though her tone carried the unspoken truth that there were no certainties in the game they were now thrust into.

As she turned to make her preparations, the wind sighed through the Godswood, a haunting melody that lingered in the hearts of all who remained.

Willam sat at the long table, absentmindedly pushing the food about his plate. The hearty stew, which earlier had stirred his appetite, now sat largely untouched. His stomach, once eager, had turned sour with the weight of the day.

Robb and Theon were absent, having ridden out to accompany their mother and Ser Rodrik to White Harbor. It was said the seas would be safer than the treacherous kingsroad, though Willam found little comfort in that knowledge. The hall felt emptier than ever, the flickering torchlight throwing long shadows across the stone walls. Only Rickon and the Princess shared his table tonight, the latter as quiet and withdrawn as he himself.

Feeling the burden of silence, Willam finally spoke. "How were you today, Princess?" he asked, his voice soft but steady.

The Princess glanced up from her plate, setting her fork down with a quiet clink. She shifted in her seat, offering a small, weary smile. "I am a little under the weather," she replied, her tone polite but subdued. "The climate here is colder than I expected when I first arrived."

"My apologies," Willam said, his gaze flicking briefly to the Kingsguard knight standing at attention nearby. His unease with the red cloaked guards, foisted upon Winterfell by Her Grace, was ever-present. They had been sent, ostensibly, to safeguard her daughter, but Willam could not shake the feeling that their presence was more intrusive than protective. "Winterfell was chosen by the first Kings of Winter for its hot springs," he added, his voice warming with the tale. "The springs beneath the castle keep us warmer within these walls than the bitter winds outside."

"Truly?" the Princess asked, her interest kindled. "I hadn't known. That would explain why the castle's heart does not match the chill of its stone exterior."

Willam nodded, a faint flicker of satisfaction at her curiosity, but the quiet soon returned, stretching between them. It was the Princess who broke it this time, her voice gentle. "I am sorry, Willam, for the direwolves you and your family buried today. I can only imagine the sorrow you must feel."

Her words struck a chord, and though the mention of the wolves opened a fresh wound, her genuine sympathy was a small balm. "Thank you, Princess," he said earnestly. "Your kind words mean much to me—and I know Robb will appreciate them too."

The Princess offered a soft chuckle. "Lord Robb seems entirely consumed by his duties as acting Lord since both of our fathers departed for the South. He has spent little time with me of late, not as he did when the betrothal was first declared."

Willam frowned slightly, a pang of guilt and frustration rising in him on behalf of his older brother. "I shall speak to him when he returns," he promised, though his voice carried an edge of falsehood he hoped the Princess would not detect. "He… went for a midnight ride."

In truth, Robb had ridden with Theon to White Harbor, ensuring their mother and Ser Rodrik's safe departure. He would return within a day or two, but Willam thought it better to shield the Princess from the harsher realities swirling around Winterfell for now.

The faint sound of Rickon's spoon clinking against his bowl echoed through the hall as Willam sat back, glancing toward the great windows where the night pressed heavily against the glass. A candle flickered on the table, its flame bowing low before extinguishing itself with a whisper of smoke—a fleeting omen that tightened the unease already coiling in Willam's heart.